the REFUGE

Ammon Hennacy related this story of an incident which occurred in the 1930s when he was a social worker in Milwaukee. He had gone to the home of a man who was on pain relief when the man pulled a knife on him:

He would prance around and swing his fist at me to frighten me and breathe down the back of my neck and tickle me with the point of his knife. I was not frightened for I had learned in solitary not to be afraid of anything. He threatened me on for nearly an hour. I did not answer back a word nor hang my head but looked him in the eye. Finally he came after me more energetically than before and said that I had to do something.

I got up and said “I will do something, but not what you think.” I reached out my hand in a friendly manner saying “You are all right but you forget about it. I am not afraid of that false face you have on. I see the good man inside. If you want to knife me or knock me cold, go ahead. I won’t hit you back; go ahead. I dare you!” But I didn’t double dare him.

He shook my hand and with the other hand was making passes to hit me in the face. I did not say anything more. Slowly his grip loosened and he went to the door and opened it, pulled up the blind and put the knife away.

“What I don’t see is why you don’t hit back.”

“That’s just what I want you to see,” I answered.

“Explain it.” He demanded.

“What is your strongest weapon? It is your big fist with a big knife. What is my weakest weapon? It is a little fist without a knife. What is my strongest weapon? It is the fact that I do not get excited; I do not boil over; some people call it spiritual power. What is your weakest weapon? It is your getting excited and boiling over and your lack of spiritual power. I would be dumb if I used my weakest weapon, my small fist without a knife, against your strongest weapon, your large fist with a knife. I am smart, so I use my strongest weapon, my quiet spiritual power against your weakest weapon, your excited manner, and I won, didn’t I?”

If I had told him, “Don’t hit or knife this good Christian anarchist who returns good for evil,” he would have laughed at me. When I showed no fear and dared him to do me up, it woke him up to the reality and took his mind off his meanness. The good was in him the same as it was in the warden and the District Attorney, but it had to be brought out by the warmth of love which I showed, and not by the blustering wind which provoked only more bluster.

“And when do I go to court?”

“You won’t go to court. I don’t believe in courts; you have learned your lesson.”

When I left the house my knees were shaking from the strain although I had not wavered a bit all along.