The Babe in Blythe

Peter Taylor Forsyth said God is an infinite opportunist. I believe that, and here is one reason why: the Babe in Blythe.

Blythe is a desert town on the Arizona-California border. My family and I were on our way back home from vacation when we stopped at a McDonald’s in Blythe. It was packed with tired travelers like us. Lauretta, my wife, asked me to hold Mary, our eighteen-month old, while she went to the restroom and our three sons romped in the play area.

Picture me holding my daughter, a few feet from the restroom doors, as the Babe from Blythe emerged from behind those doors. She was gorgeous — tanned and dressed as, well, as young women are wont to dress in warm desert climates.

And she was looking right at me, smiling warmly! My fatigued mind was suddenly focused. I straightened up and smiled back, flush with the adolescent conceit that even though I was much older than she was, I must still be a very attractive man. Babes still take notice!

Our smiles and eyes met for longer than a mere random encounter as she walked past. Then I noticed my reflection in the mirror along the wall and saw who she was smiling at. It was me, all right, but it wasn’t Ben Patterson the Mature Hunk. It was Ben Patterson, Mary’s Daddy. He was middle aged, a little lumpy, and holding a precious child. That’s what delighted the Babe.

My first reaction was embarrassment. Silly fool, you aren’t what you thought you were!

But as I continued to look in the mirror, I decided I liked what I saw there more than I liked what I first thought the Babe saw. I like being Mary’s Daddy. I like it a lot. Ditto for Dan and Joel and Andy. It’s better to be a daddy than a stud. My deflation turned into elation.

Whether or not that is what Forsyth meant by God being an infinite opportunist, that’s what I mean. He orchestrated my lust and conceit into a blessed realization of my true glory and happiness. God was smiling at me through the smile of the Babe in Blythe.

With one deft stroke, he seized the moment, stripped me bare, and clothed me with mercy.

He’s done that my whole life. I remember the first time, as I was preaching, I made a broad gesture and several heads in the congregation turned and looked where I was pointing. The same flush I felt in Blythe came over me. They’re really listening to me! I point this way and they look this way. Feels good! I did it again, and again heads turned.

Later, when I thought about the flush and the tawdry little experiment, I was stricken with shame. A snarling zoo of false motives was exposed. I’m often shocked at all the wrong reasons I have for doing the right things.

Many times, when I am thus stripped bare, I have been tempted to resign the ministry. I have no right to be a minister of the gospel. That is, of course, correct — but in more than one way. I have no right because of my sin, and no right because of God’s mercy. The ministry is never a right, always a mercy.

The apostle Paul is clear: it is “through God’s mercy we have this ministry,” the upshot being, therefore, “we do not lose heart” (2 Cor. 4:1). We were saved by grace, we are saved by grace, and we will be saved by grace. What made me a child of God also makes me his servant. God made a bad man like Paul an apostle simply to show the world how gracious he is (1 Tim. 1:15, 16).

My friends, I could not minister another day in Christ’s name if I did not believe this was the truth.

Ben Patterson is campus pastor at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California. To reply, write Newsletter@LeadershipJournal.net.