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WHO SHOULD DRAW THE LINE?
The Lutheran magazine

Chase A. Chisholm

Abstinence-only sex-education classes are increasing in public schools nationwide. This fiscal year, the Bush administration raised federal funding to $167 million for these “no-sex only” classes. Emphasizing the importance of avoiding premarital sex, such programs are causing a stir.

Religion News Service says supporters of the federal restrictions say teaching teens about birth control encourages them to have sex. Others worry some young people won’t know how to protect themselves when they become sexually active. But what’s being taught isn’t causing the concern—it’s who’s doing the teaching and where the government’s money is going.

In its newsletter the Baptist Joint Committee reports that the American Civil Liberties Union challenged the government’s support of an abstinence-only “evangelistic ministry” program as unconstitutional. Its report says the Massachusetts ACLU branch sued the Department of Health and Human Services May 16 to stop funding of the “Silver Ring Thing” program, which gives teens silver rings inscribed with a Bible passage. The program has received more than $1 million in federal funding over the past three years.

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FAITHFUL CHEMISTRY
> Bruce Weber talks about his formula for coaching—and for living
The Lutheran magazine

Chase A. Chisholm

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You can’t see it, but you can feel it,” Bruce Weber says, describing what he calls the chemistry of the University of Illinois men’s basketball team he led to the NCAA championship game last March. “It’s very hard to find, but when a team really does have chemistry, they’re a special group,” says the head coach from the Champaign-Urbana campus.

I caught up with him this summer at a Chicagoland golf outing—as he caught his breath. Rushing from one event to the next, an enthusiastic Weber had only 20 minutes to chat.

This particular “special group” we talked about finished the 2004-05 season with a 37-2 record, tying the NCAA record of victories in a single season. One loss came in that final game against the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. “It’s amazing. We lost—and yet we weren’t a failure,” Weber says, “because of our team, their personalities and the way they played.”

“Having chemistry” may be handy shorthand in the U.S., but explaining the concept of a team having chemistry is hard to translate, Weber explains.

This concept isn’t new to Weber’s coaching. While an assistant at Purdue University, West Lafayette, Ind., Weber was invited to lead a clinic for the Turkish Basketball Federation in Istanbul. The coach had to clarify how a team could “have” chemistry: “When I said ‘chemistry,’ the interpreters looked at me and asked: ‘You mean mixing, chemistry—making drugs?’

“I said, ‘No, no—chemistry, the feel of a team, of a togetherness—blending and molding.’ ”

Laughing, Weber admits, “I could tell they didn’t know.”

Glancing back over a historic season—the closest the Fighting Illini has ever come to owning a basketball national championship—and fast-forwarding to the next, Weber has a new formula in mind.

What’s in the mix? Adding new players to the blend and redefining the roles of returners: Will a newly formed team have chemistry? “You hope that what you’ve built continues,” he says. “Each group needs to carry on the effort it takes, the togetherness and the chemistry.”

Belief in a purposeful life
How? Where does the compound-bonding begin? What is it? And what’s inside? It begins with having a belief. “If you’re at that magic level, if you’re having that success, everyone wants to know why and how you got it,” Weber says. He shares the words of his mentor, Gene Keady, recently retired coach of Purdue: “It’s having a strong faith. A belief. And everyone’s beliefs are different.”

The need to understand these differences is a must, says Weber, a member of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, Champaign. So is having a common belief in a purposeful life. “We always talk about [being] put here for a purpose,” he says, adding that he urges his players to live up to that purpose. “You don’t always know the purpose, but each day there’s something there that might make a difference in somebody else’s life.”

Fostering team chemistry also includes learning from 20-plus years of experience. It’s testing new ideas. “Last year I didn’t name a captain at all. I didn’t have to, [the team] just knew what to do,” Weber says. “This year I’ve already named captains. The veteran players have been through it, they understand the hard work and effort it takes, and they bring the new guys along. To me, the enjoyable part of coaching is molding a team, developing roles and figuring out who’s going to be the leader.”

It continues with teaching. “I see myself as a teacher,” Weber says. “When I say coach, I see teacher. What is teaching? It’s change. That’s our job—to change attitudes, to change faith.”

Recalling his influences, Weber adds: “My dad who taught used to say, ‘There’s no better job in the world than to be a teacher. You give to people and you help people. What better way of life can you have?’ ”

Grace and second chances
Then, forgiveness. And add in some grace. “I believe every person deserves a second chance,” Weber says, reflecting on the well-known incident involving star player Luther Head who, with two teammates, was accused of burglarizing an apartment between his junior and senior years and suspended for four games. Weber looks beyond the situation—which caused major changes—for the better. “I always talk about how adversity brings people together,” he says. “Tragedy brings people together. We had a problem. We had adversity. A tragedy. Everyone came together, and it was very important in the development of our team.”

His players respond to his care in personal ways, as well as a team. Weber received much-appreciated phone calls in June. “Several of the guys called,” he says, “and wished me a happy Father’s Day.”
He’s a real father—to Hannah, 19; Christy, 17; and Emily, 13—as well. And a role model, too, says Donna Hacker Smith, his pastor at Good Shepherd, where he and his wife, Megan, and daughters are regular worshipers.

“Parents have said to me what it means to them for their kids to see Coach Weber in church,” Smith says. “I have had moms say how their little boys are freaking out to sit near him. He’s like their hero. Seeing him be a dad and a husband is a wonderful example.”

Inner strength, inner peace
How does Weber’s personal life and faith reflect his coaching style? “It gives me an inner strength—an inner peace,” he says. “There’s no doubt it keeps me humble.”

Weber found himself looking for a sense of strength when his mother unexpectedly died during the height of last season. “I think definitely my faith did that, gave me strength,” he says.

Although Weber is most always on the run, “I’ve got to be there,” he says, “if my kid has a swim meet or [needs help with] schoolwork.”

Being a good husband is definitely an important element. And having a supportive family is, perhaps, the key factor. “They are patient,” he says of his family. “It’s patience with me being gone and, at the same time, to always be in the spotlight. Sometimes that’s not easy.”

How does he keep going? “I’m tired, to be honest,” he says.

But he has one surprising way to relax: cutting the grass. “People think I’m nuts!” he admits. “I love cutting the grass because I’m out there by myself and no one’s bothering me. I’m sweating, I’m in the sun and I feel energized by that.”

And what about the coming basketball season? “You always look forward to it,” Weber says. “It’s part of coaching.”

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SLAP!
www.thelutheran.org

Chase A. Chisholm
7/8/2005

Ignorance is bliss, yes, but read the small print. There’s one minor side affect—a slap in the face. When mixed with reality, a hard slap may result.

I worked at a radio station for four years. I rarely listen to the radio. I majored in communications and aspire to be a television reporter. I never watch television. I enjoy writing. I never read. I can count the number of times on one hand I’ve glanced at a newspaper. Two hands for every time I’ve held a magazine. I love art, design and photography. I get bored in museums. I design Web sites. I hate computers. Perhaps I’m in the wrong career field? No. The issue is time. I have no time.

It seems no one has time to realize what’s happening in our communities, throughout the nation, let alone the world. The question is: Do we care? I care. Would you believe me? Probably not. This morning I was driving to the Lutheran Center in my usual hurry. On the freeway in “rush” hour, “rushing” to work with other “rushed” people, I was slapped in the face.

My attention was drawn to an individual holding a large poster atop a patriotically decorated bridge (west of downtown over the interstate). I’m an outsider. Streets and bridges have no name. It comes with being ignorant. Within seconds I was under the bridge, but the image of what I saw remained. It was graphic and real. The word “abortion” complimented the picture. I believe the poster image depicted an aborted fetus.

Good morning (insert slap in the face) to me!

I remain opinion-less on the issue of abortion. I’m this way for many issues. I simply don’t know enough to take sides. Ignorance is safety. What I don’t know, or see, or hear or read doesn’t affect me. Right? Slap! Wrong. The problem is—it affects us all. A majority of influential worldly citizens are ignorant when it comes to current events and social injustices. This majority resides in a place seemingly too rushed to care—America. I add to the list.

I want to change. Do you? Protect yourself from being slapped. Know.

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> Their Story, My Story, Ours—Hope.
Youth Encounter

Chase A. Chisholm
Spring newsletter 2006

Read New Dawn's entire Spring newsletter >>
Summer newsletter >>

It’s late. I sit perched with an iced (now melted) Starbucks "venti" low fat latte in hand. The air is thick, humid. A small Olympus tape recorder rests on my chest. My stomach—uneasy from the biscuits had earlier. Stop and rewind. Stop again. Listen. Listen to the voices of so many at Bethany Home. Hear the stories they tell. Learn. And hope with them.

"The question is always asked," a strong Chundra Devi admits to struggles had in her 25 years at Bethany, "God, are you there?"

A registered nurse, Devi has seen the home challenged, she’s changed and the people it cares for transformed. "It's good to go through the struggles," she answers her own question, hopeful; "you know God is always at hand." Remaining positive and committed to her work, Devi looks for extra ways to help others.

A student passes by her office, waving. "He was so small," she reminisces gesturing back,” and now he’s grown up." The children are the reason she comes to work every day. "Each one has touched my life.” Mine as well.

"Don't underestimate disabled children," a young-hearted Valli John tells, "they can do anything."

A teacher for over 20 years, John shares about a “mountaintop” experience at Bethany. Several of the students climbed Mt. Kinabalu, Southeast Asia’s highest peak. A plane ride to Sabah (East Malaysia) and 4,100 meters won’t stop these kids. "Even I can't climb the mountain,” she declares, “They've done it!"

"The children," volunteer Martins Strikis believes, "are in a pretty good place. It's not that the children need more," he reveals on our way to have tea, "it's the teachers...the job is crazy." It truly is. The tall, man-capri-wearing Australian hopes to volunteer again next year.

"It’s constant childcare," he laughs, "you know." I chuckle as well. A loud garbage truck smothers our chat and Strikis concludes, "They've got such love and passion for these kids.” They do.

“It’s them that makes this place shine for God,” compliments Mr. Jayasingh Rajiah, director of Bethany Home. I visit with the humble leader at his desk.

“A center like this,” he admits, “would not exist in your country.” He’s right.

“One of our main needs is professionals,” he continues. “We don’t get professionals.”

Fighting several phone interruptions and a knock at the door, I learn from Mr. Jayasingh there are five trained specialists (out of the many servant-hearted employees) for over 180 students. It’s not enough. Bethany needs more—“more people who can train” and encourage.

These people “could be retired pastors or professionals,” he gives examples. And volunteers are always needed. Bethany Home cannot afford to hire more staff. “Volunteers,” Mr. Jayasingh tells, “supplement that.”

“My greatest desire is that people out there would pray for this home.” Do pray. Pray for Bethany Home. Hope with Mr. Jayasingh. And listen. “We need more support.”

Bethany Home—founded on Christian principles and values, continues to exist in a predominantly Muslim country and in a society where some outcast people with disabilities. 40 years strong this facility has served and loved people with all conditions including: epilepsy, physical and intellectual disabilities, cerebral palsy and autism. Bethany's mission is "to improve the quality of life of persons with disabilities and their families." It's happening.

Bethany Home. A place unlike any other I have been. Transparent to many and known to most, the training and education center for people with disabilities is found in Simpang Empat, Malaysia. A quiet village nestled within jungle, surrounded by palm oil and rubber tree plantations and across the busy street from Restoran Durgaas. "Teh tarik" (tea mixed with condensed milk) can be had at the tiny storefront café. And to one young man with muscular dystrophy, dodging vehicles is worth the treat.

He doesn’t have much longer to live, it seems. The muscle-eating disease will soon consume what’s left of him, not much. A big smile and energetic spirit distract from his frail, skeleton-like body. His story has been mentioned. Four years he lived confined. Friendships weakened as did his muscles. All was lost. Suicide seemed the only answer.

Bethany found him. “I [am] really happy at Bethany Home,” he tells, “I like all the people.” God saved his life. “God is really great.” We visit after breakfast over the honking of distant vehicles. It seems the strength of his faith keeps him going, like the motor of his wheelchair as we cross the road. “Bethany home is [a] good place.”

Hope is what keeps him alive. “Maybe I [will] try to become an artist.” Hope.

She has lost all hope. I would too. A self-called clown by day, she wears a fake smile. Unhappy, alone and depressed at night, the smile is washed away. “Why,” she’s asked God, “why” she asks me, “why would God take away my family?” I sit and listen as tears stream down her face. Husband left. Children rejected her. She lives waiting for paychecks. Waiting to feed herself and what she does have left, her child. “The only property I have is my disabled child.”

The tiny faith she struggles to hold, “I feel distant from God,” keeps her alive. “I am a Christian…the only Christian in my family.” She still hopes and believes.

A boy is lost, always questioning the God he loves, always challenging Jesus—the man he follows, and always attacking the religion he’s part. Asked to encourage tired, exhausted teachers and thought of as understanding what it’s like working with physically or intellectually challenged people. He feels lost.

Tired himself and not content with where he’s at—ever—he continues encouraging those he cannot fully understand. He lives each day excited about life, hopeful for what's to come and wonders. Why is there a God who loves? Who is Jesus? What is religion? Does any of it matter?

Then he remembers. He remembers the young man who lives and loves Christ, the child about to die. He thinks about the woman with nothing to live for but the burden of a disabled son. She still believes and hopes. So he praises God for continuing to work in his life, for continuing to use his being and for continuing to teach his heart through the stories of other people.

I am he, this man who doubts. This is my story, their story, our story—a tale of hope. My coffee is gone. It’s nearly 6 AM. A bird stirs the morning’s night. Fast-forward the tape. Click. Click. It’s done. The tape is finished, the story is not. Listen. Listen to the voices of so many at Bethany Home. In your heart, hear the stories they tell. Learn. And hope with them.

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