For Henry

Henry was a big black man.

Back then, though, this kind of thing was more common. When? Well, I don't know for sure; I guess I don't even know where, somewhere a bit wild, I'd imagine. Today it would be illegal--that's a fact! Only reason I remember "Henry" is because he makes me think of my favorite tall-tale character, John Henry, who beat a machine in a race with a hammer, even though the victory cost him his life.

But it sure caused a stir that day. Just think about it: Henry walks into town real quiet, but real big, and real black. In this particular locale lived a mix of people. I hear there were a majority of tough men, but some ladies, too, and they was speaking at least two, three languages there. You could not really hear them, though, because with quiet Henry was a loud white man, walking about ten steps ahead. He was shouting something about fifty dollars--a lot of money! If you listened closer, you could understand that he was challenging the town to a fight. He said that Henry could whip the finest boxer in town, and he said his fifty dollars would prove it.

Well, I am not sure what Henry thought; maybe no one asked him. They didn't laugh at him though. Even if he was kind of hunched over as he shuffled in the dusty sunlight, you could tell he was strong. He could not be very old, neither, maybe in his thirties. His cotton shirt played a little in the wind, but the muscles beneathe it moved it even more. This was in stark contrast to the fellow out front.

The other man was narrow, and he wore boots with heels to grow him up a couple of inches. Everything about him shined, from his boots to his watch to spectacles, and even his voice. His voice was of an odd timbre, like a bell that wants to be heard. It was not bothersome--in fact, rather winsome--yet half of you wanted to look away while the other half wanted to listen more.

The half that didn't want to listen was already scurrying from house to house, gossiping glib. Who would fight this champion? Terrance might be able to handle him, or maybe Neil's boy, Gordon. Sven was big, or Red, was he bigger? He was certainly quicker.

No one knew for sure, but they naturally gathered in the center of town. Of course! Davy Smith would accept the challenge; he was known in the whole region for his often bloody knuckles and his quick grin that admitted he was missing two teeth. Everyone loved Davy; he was one of them--one of us, you could say!

In no time, the fight was on. The two men circled, eyeing one another between their balled hands. Davy struck first, a light jab to Henry's left cheek. The big man did not even try to block such a weak effort. Then Davy came again, before Henry could throw a punch. One-two, three, even four and five blows struck the challenger, two in the face, two in the body, and another one in the face. The town was cheering; this was their Davy! Again he attacked, landing two more punches in the body, and a quick right that split Henry's eyebrow. The people were still hollering, encouraging their hero. He threw again and again and again, soon bloodying the nose of his opponent. Now he felt strong, and he increased the intensity, becoming more vicious. He did not notice the crowd falling silent; he didn't see what they saw. He was thrilled and eager to continue; he hadn't even been hit!

Then he, too, realized what the people knew. Henry had not tried to block a single attack; nor had he thrown a single punch. The big man let the local hero rain down punches on him. He was bleeding, and even swaying a little, apparently dazed by the beating. Suddenly Davy noticed something else. His opponent was gazing at him through the melee, crying. Not angry tears, not defeated tears, but sad tears. Tears that seemed to be for him . . . for Davy. Davy hesitated a moment, and then in a fit of rage slammed his fists into that crying face, wanting to close those crying eyes. What was this? Some sort of trick? Why wasn't he fighting? Davy screamed at him, and as he pummeled him in fury, the black man finally sank to the ground, defeated.

Now Davy was crying, but he didn't know why. He felt ashamed, and the townsfolk looked on, unsure of what had just happened. An unexpected contest, a one-sided duel, and two grown men crying.

The more the people thought about it, the less they spoke. Into the hush that followed stepped the little man with the bell-voice. He handed a now-numb Davy fifty dollars cash, and shook his hand. "Congratulations, young man. You won." Then he looked around at the expectant people, waiting for something they could not express.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, you may be feeling a lot of different things right now. Perhaps you are confused, or perhaps you are angry, thinking that I came as a rich white man to make sport of this black man. I assure you that Henry came willingly, knowing what was to happen. He and I are the best of friends, and in this moment, I want nothing more than to run to him and help him to his feet; to take him home. But I will speak first on his behalf, because his heart is his largest muscle, and it is filled with a great love for you--even you." As he said this, he looked at Davy. Meanwhile, every person clung to his words.

"If Henry could talk right now, he would tell you that he is worth more than any treasure. He knows this because one day, someone fought for him like you he fought for you today. You probably know that Henry is very strong, and the truth is that he is a champion boxer. He has won many a boxing match, yet he has a gentle spirit and wants to heal people instead of hit people. You see, he once heard a story that changed his life--a true story. He learned about a poor villager who became a great teacher. The people loved him, but some of their leaders were offended by the truth he spoke. They arrested him, and innocent of any crime, he was mocked and beaten. This man was named Jesus, the only Son of the Living God. He had all power on heaven and earth, but instead of fighting for his life, he did not defend himself, nor did he say a word. Like Henry today, he allowed himself to be beaten because he wanted to feel the pain of the people he loved--he was spit on and punched and whipped, his beard was plucked out, thorns were pressed into his head, and in the end, he was nailed to a wooden cross and left to die, rejected by the his own people.

"He was one of them. He was their kindred, and they killed him. He died that day, an innocent man who bore the sufferings of the very people who beat and murdered him. And Henry is laying there on the ground in his own blood today to tell you that this Jesus shed his blood and bore the pain for you, too. In a beautiful miracle, He took your death upon Him and offers you His life. Even though He died on that cross, three days later He was raised from the dead, and He still lives today.

"Henry is also still alive. If you want to know Henry better, I would suggest that you ask this merciful Jesus to forgive you for the person you have been and for the things you have done, to come and live in you, through you. You see, it is the love and grace of Jesus that you saw today living in Henry. If you get to know this Jesus, His love and grace will live in you, too. It was Henry's privilege to represent Jesus to you today; for that privilege he thanks you and he thanks his Lord, Jesus the Christ."

With that, the little man hurried over to his friend Henry. With some water, he washed his friend's face, and then he helped him to stand. Without another word, the two of them started home, Henry leaning on his friend, both of them leaning on Jesus.