The Dobson way
An evangelical leader steps squarely into the political ring
At its 81-acre campus headquarters in Colorado Springs, whose four brick buildings resemble a corporate office park, 150 phone attendants--of 1,400 total employees--field 5,000 daily phone calls from Focus constituents. People call Focus to request one of thousands of Focus resources, from brochures about beating alcoholism to CD s of old broadcasts on domestic violence to prayer books to 11 different Focus magazines (not including orders placed online, the most popular method). Calls to Focus's 800 number are answered by a person within three rings, and orders ship within 24 hours from a 75,000-square-foot warehouse. "It's not a customer ordering a book," says one employee, explaining the speedy, personalized service. "It's a woman whose daughter is considering abortion."
Callers with those kinds of serious concerns--about 1 in 10--are routed to a team of 60 specialists who recommend Focus resources based on a caller's circumstances. One recent caller worried that her husband was too strict with their college-age daughter; she was sent one of Dobson's parenting books, at a cost of about $20. Another felt depressed and wanted information on herbal remedies; a Focus rep prayed with her over the phone and sent a book on alternative medicine by a Christian doctor at a 75 percent discount, because the caller was tight on money.
Callers with still more pressing problems are transferred to one of 16 state-licensed counselors, who conduct a phone therapy session before referring callers to a Focus-approved therapist in their area. When a pastor's wife called to say her husband was verbally abusing her, a Focus counselor homed in on the husband's use of pornography. "If you continue to enable him to walk in sin," the counselor said, "you are allowing him to walk into hell." It's not the only controversial aspect of Focus's counseling, which treats homosexuality as a psychological condition that's correctable through therapy.
Strident stands. In pushing vigorously for a federal marriage amendment and in claiming some credit for the GOP's successes in November, Dobson and some other evangelical leaders have drawn fire from within their own ranks for appearing too strident or extreme. "Not everyone feels western civilization is going to rise and fall on a marriage amendment," says Richard Cizik, a lobbyist for the National Association of Evangelicals, which claims 30 million members. "My fear is we're bringing on criticism that we're modern-day ayatollahs." Dobson, for his part, won't budge. "The poor and needy are important," he says. "But . . . with the killing of 43 million babies, it's not in the same league--we're talking the unborn holocaust." The only other issue on par, for Dobson, is banning same-sex marriage. "You have to decide the things that matter most," he says. ". . . If that makes us sound extreme, I'll take it."
That kind of self-assurance may stem from Dobson's upbringing as a Nazarene (his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were ordained ministers), a denomination that holds adherents responsible for living personally holy lives. But with about 90 denominations under the evangelical umbrella, the community is diverse, theologically and politically, and part of Dobson's success comes from his ability to cut across denominational lines. "Most evangelicals could not tell you what denomination Dobson is," notes the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life's Luis Lugo. Dobson has also maintained a spotless personal reputation in a world of scandal-plagued media evangelists that includes Jimmy Swaggart and Jim Bakker. His wife of 44 years is his college's homecoming queen, Shirley Dobson, who chairs the National Day of Prayer, and their grown son and daughter are active on the Christian speaking circuit. Dobson keeps a modest condominium in Colorado Springs, has never collected a salary from Focus (he lives off book sales), and, since suffering a heart attack in 1990, has been a health nut. "Yesterday was my 4,002nd day of exercise since Dec. 14, 1993," he said without blinking in a December interview. "I've missed 14 days of exercise in 11 years."
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