When I entered the Society of Jesus, I was surprised to find out our community was filled with guns. This is not a metaphor. Between backs of the closet, under beds and I-don’t-even-want-to-know-where there were at least a couple dozen rifles to be found in my novitiate, and who knows what else.
No, I hadn’t accidentally taken a left instead of a right at the “Branch Davidians/Society of Jesus” turnoff. (Although talk about two trees diverging in a yellow wood.) The truth was—and I hesitate to say this, for fear of reinforcing coastal stereotypes that Midwesterners are all basically subjects of a Coen Brothers movie*—my Jesuit novitiate was located in Minnesota, and our staff and novices included a number of hunters.
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