Everyday Sacred: Religion in Contemporary Quebec 9780773552425

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e v e ry day sa c r e d

Advancing Studies in Religion series editor: christine mitchell Advancing Studies in Religion catalyzes and provokes original research in the study of religion with a critical edge. The series advances the study of religion in method and theory, textual interpretation, theological studies, and the understanding of lived religious experience. Rooted in the long and diverse traditions of the study of religion in Canada, the series demonstrates awareness of the complex genealogy of religion as a category and as a disci­ pline. asr welcomes submissions from authors researching religion in varied contexts and with diverse methodologies. The series is sponsored by the Canadian Corporation for Studies in Reli­ gion whose constituent societies include the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies, Canadian Society for the Study of Religion, Canadian Society of Patristic Studies, Canadian Theological Society, Société canadienne de théologie, and Société québécoise pour l’étude de la religion. 1 The al­Baqara Crescendo Understanding the Quran’s Style, Narrative Structure, and Running Themes Nevin Reda 2 Leaving Christianity Changing Allegiances in Canada since 1945 Brian Clarke and Stuart Macdonald 3 Everyday Sacred Religion in Contemporary Quebec Edited by Hillary Kaell

Everyday Sacred Religion in Contemporary Quebec

e d i t e d b y h illa ry k a ell

McGill­Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston • London • Chicago

© McGill­Queen’s University Press 2017 isbn isbn isbn isbn

978-0-7735-5094-0 978-0-7735-5095-7 978-0-7735-5242-5 978-0-7735-5243-2

(cloth) (paper) (epdf) (epub)

Legal deposit fourth quarter 2017 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid­free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post­consumer recycled), processed chlorine free This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Awards to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. Funding has also been received from Concordia University’s Aid to Research Related Events (arre) Program. McGill­Queen’s University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Everyday sacred : religion in contemporary Quebec / edited by Hillary Kaell. (Advancing studies in religion ; 3) Includes bibliographical references and index. Issued in print and electronic formats. i s b n 978­0­7735­5094­0 (hardcover).–i s b n 978­0­7735­5095­7 (softcover). i s b n 978­0­7735­5242­5 (pdf).–i s b n 978­0­7735­5243­2 (epub) 1. Québec (Province)–Religion–21st century. 2. Religion and sociology–Québec (Province). 3. Religion and politics–Québec (Province). 4. Québec (Province)– History–21st century. I. Kaell, Hillary, editor II. Series: Advancing studies in religion ; 3 bl2530.c3e94 2017

200.971409’051

This book was typeset in Sabon.

c2017­904841­4 c2017­904842­2

Contents

Figures vii Acknowledgments ix Introduction 3 Hillary Kaell

s ecti o n o ne: wo rs h i p a n d p r ac t i c e 1 Pentecostal Immigrants in a Neoliberal Age: The Young and the Restless 31 Géraldine Mossière 2 Constructing Today’s Church: Gendered Religious Practice in a Rural Parish 54 Frédéric Parent and Hélène Charron 3 Powwow Music: Tradition and Innovation in Indigenous Cosmologies 75 Laurent Jérôme 4 T’beet: Situating Iraqi Jewish Identity through Food 99 Norma Baumel Joseph

vi

Contents

sec ti o n 2: publi c s a n d p l ac e s 5 Place Making and People Gathering at Rural Wayside Crosses 129 Hillary Kaell 6 Pilgrims’ Presence: Catholic Continuity in Quebec 156 Emma Anderson 7 Muslim Veiling and the Legacy of Laïcité 186 Meena Sharify-Funk and Elysia Guzik

sec ti o n 3: new fro nti e rs a n d t h e b e yo n d 8 Individualized Religion and Sociality among Montreal Spiritualists 215 Deirdre Meintel 9 Transhumanism, (Secular) Religion, and the Biotech Age: Liberation from the Lamentable 234 Cory Andrew Labrecque Afterword 254 Randall Balmer Notes 259 Selected Bibliography 321 Contributors 339 Index 343

Figures

1.1 Poster at Montreal’s Église de la Promesse, May 2013. Author’s collection. 50 3.1 Black Bear Singers from Manawan at Wemotaci Powwow. Author’s collection. 85 3.2 Wemotashee Singer at Kahnawake Powwow. Author’s collection. 85 3.3 Closing drum song at Wemotaci Powwow. Author’s collection. 89 3.4 Wapan Boivin performing a traditional men’s dance. Author’s collection. 90 5.1 Saint­Jovite cross. Photographed in May 2014 by Jacques Harvey. Courtesy of Monique Bellemare. www.patrimoineduquebec.com 130 5.2 Saint­Frédéric cross – white with a stylized heart. Photographed in 2014 by Jacques Harvey. Courtesy of Monique Bellemare. www.patrimoineduquebec.com 133 5.3 and 5.4 (detail) Saint­Ferdinand cross, with space for cars to pull over. Photographed in October 2014 by Gérald Arbour. Courtesy of Monique Bellemare. 138–9

viii

Figures

5.5 A simple cross with a garden in St­Ignace­de­Stanbridge. Photographed in 2010. Courtesy of Monique Bellemare. 142 5.6 Gathering to bless a renovated cross in Saint­Come­de­Linière. Photographed in September 2013. Author’s collection. 149 6.1 Frère André and St Joseph intercede on behalf of an ill child. From the crypt church, sab. Author’s collection. 159 6.2 An emotional testimonial, written in the book outside the tomb of Father Pampalon. Crypt church, sab. Author’s collection. 164 6.3 A miraculously enlivened statue of Notre­Dame­du­Cap meeting the gaze of her three venerators, including Père Luc Désilets. Crypt church, sab. Author’s collection. 166 6.4 The Oratoire created dioramas of the rooms in which Frère André lived, worked, and died. Taken in osj. Author’s collection. 172 6.5 Visitors at the miraculous statue of Saint Anne at Beaupré. Upper church, sab. Author’s collection. 173 6.6 Family photos, flowers, and other ephemeral tokens placed beside statues of Jesus and Veronica at the santa scala of Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré. Santa Scala, sab. Author’s collection. 174 6.7 Though increasingly rare in reality, Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré’s strong tradition of collective, clerically­led pilgrimage are preserved in its very architecture. Upper church, sab. Author’s collection. 176 6.8 A woman poses for a photo in front of the Oratoire. Behind her, pilgrims scale the steps to the shrine’s main entrance on their knees. Author’s collection. 179

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to each of the contributors for their enthusiasm and dedication to this project. It has been a great pleasure to work with them. Concordia graduate students Eleni Psarudis and Ashely Crouch were instrumental in organizing our colloquium and prepar­ ing the final manuscript, respectively. Laurel Andrew did a wonder­ ful job with the index. Our editor Kyla Madden and her team at McGill­Queen’s University Press have been essential from the start; if Kyla had not spearheaded and guided this volume, it would never have come about. Her wise counsel and unflagging good humour have been invaluable. I also owe a debt to our anonymous reviewers, whose careful reading and comments greatly strengthened the vol­ ume. I am pleased to thank Concordia University’s Office of the Vice­ President Research and Graduate Studies and the Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, both of which supported this volume with generous grants. I do not take that financial support for granted; recent budgetary cuts are making it increasingly difficult to do the kind of close­grained, long­term studies in the humanities and social sciences that feature in this volume. Their support is a hopeful sign. Last, as always, I am grateful to my family. Jesse makes everything possible – especially as we navigate being first­time parents. It is a bit presumptuous of me to dedicate a whole volume without consulting my co­contributors, so I do so only unofficially: To Charna Evi – the newest Québécoise in my life. I am so looking forward to showing you all the wonderful things your home province has to offer.

e v e ry day sa c r e d

Introduction Église. Synagogue. Mosquée. sacré . Égalité hommes­femmes. Neutralité religieuse de l’État. tout aussi sacré . Government of Quebec subway advertisement, September 2013.1 Voilà, c’est reparti. Le Devoir newspaper, 3 September 2013.2

In 2013, religion was on many people’s minds. Led by Pauline Marois, the provincial Parti Québécois (pq) government proposed a Charter of Quebec Values to affirm the state’s religious neutrality (laïcité), reiterate the importance of gender equality, and frame rules for reli­ gious accommodation. Most controversially, the province’s 600,000 public employees, including civil servants, transit workers, hospital and university employees, teachers, and childcare providers, would be banned from wearing “conspicuous” religious signs, such as the hijab, turban, or kippah. Crucifixes and other patrimonial (heritage) signs of Catholicism could remain in public buildings.3 The charter was unveiled in September 2013, tabled in the provincial assembly in November, and factored in the pq government’s electoral defeat in April 2014. In the meantime, it had generated acrimonious polemics, a veritable “tsunami”4 of media attention, and brought thousands of Montrealers to the streets in protest. Marois lost her own seat in the election; her government served the shortest term of any party in Quebec since Confederation in 1867. Far from an isolated incident, the charter represents one part of an ongoing public discussion about religion that has emerged since

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the mid­1990s in many spheres of Québécois society, including its universities.5 By the 2000s, religious studies departments had been established at every major university in the province and scholarship on the topic multiplied rapidly.6 At the same time, immigration was impacting provincial demography and a series of legal cases about the rights of religious minorities introduced the public to words like sukkah, kirpan, and hijab. In 2000, the school system was officially deconfessionalized. For many people, the confluence of these trends seemed to indicate an impending crisis. In 2006, the government responded by calling a commission under philosopher Charles Taylor and sociologist Gérard Bouchard. Their widely read report promoted “interculturalism” that “seeks to reconcile ethnocultural diversity with the continuity of the French­ speaking core ... protect[ing] the rights of all in keeping with the lib­ eral tradition.” For Bouchard and Taylor, interculturalism avoids the pitfalls of a French secularism that attempts to quash difference and a Canadian multiculturalism that (theoretically at least) privileges no single group. Interculturalism recognizes French­Canadian culture as uniquely foundational in Quebec and views French as the common public language necessary for the exchange between citizens that produces a healthy and diversified society.7 The Bouchard­Taylor commission, and subsequent Charter of Values, is a good place to begin since they are key cultural touchstones, familiar to francophones and anglophones, in and outside of Quebec. They also provide a helpful introduction to three major themes that have coloured much of the recent (and prodigious) French­language scholarship on contemporary religion in Quebec. The most important of these is religious change.8 From the vantage point of the French­ descent majority, the province’s recent history is characterized first and foremost by intense upheaval: rapid secularization, precipitous Catholic unchurching, plunging birth rates, a notable Protestant/ Jewish anglophone exodus, and significant immigration of other reli­ gious groups. The second and third themes in recent studies come under the umbrella of the first: one traces how Catholicism, formerly imagined as inextricable from “French­Canadian” identity, has been repositioned in the context of these shifts; the other explores the

Introduction

5

relationship between religion and identity politics, mostly focused on the integration of recent immigrants.9 A body of overlapping work examines how religion is imbricated in institutional processes – social services, education, and law – often with an eye to public policy recommendations.10 Each of these major themes parses the effects of modernity and secularism. Secularization theses, notably in the work of political theorist Marcel Gauchet, have been influential in Quebec. In The Disenchantment of the World (1985), Gauchet took the French model as a basis for theorizing that religion had “exited” the public sphere when the state created its own rational theology with liberty as the core. As a result, while vestiges of individual belief might remain, modern citizens would eventually come to discard religious doctrine and rituals.11 In the zeitgeist of post­1960s Quebec, many intellectuals found such predictions convincing. It seemed that reli­ gious institutionalism would actually cease to exist.12 Like their colleagues elsewhere in North American and Europe, most Québécois scholars now qualify this secularization paradigm, questioning how far “deinstitutionalization” has actually gone. For some this means issuing a jeremiad that views the Church as always resurgent and inevitably threatening to produce a recul historique (his­ torical regression). Others call for a comprehensive “cultural archeol­ ogy” to better map the structuring traces Catholicism has left behind.13 Empirically informed studies of law and public policy have responded by tracking the “fact of religion” among immigrants, while sociologi­ cal data has shown high rates of continued identification and even rit­ ual participation in the French­descent majority, among whom 92 per cent identify as Catholics and 91 per cent still baptise their children.14 Québécois philosophers and theologians have also produced subtle analyses of the persistence of belief. Best known is Montreal­based phi­ losopher Charles Taylor’s A Secular Age (2007), which argues that the modern secular produces a shift in consciousness – the awareness that religious belief is just one epistemological option among many – that constrains religion but also opens new conditions of possibility. Thus authentic spirituality, according to Taylor, is not only still possible, it is actually propelled by a deep engagement with fundamental questions

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that colour the modern condition, a premise reflected in other recent studies of Québécois spirituality.15 These societal and scholarly trends provide crucial context for this volume. All writing is a product of its time, of course. But the chap­ ters gathered here emerged in a particularly active and tense period of debate. The initial conversations between contributing authors took place in 2013–14, during and just after the Charter of Quebec Values. Although each of us was interested in overlapping topics, for the most part we were previously unacquainted. After working on our chapters independently, we met in Montreal in January 2015 for a daylong symposium to workshop our contributions and orient each other to our respective fields.16 In this milieu it became clearer how our volume could complement the many studies of Quebec religion then appearing on the market. Two major lacunae stood out. First, English­ speaking audiences remained largely unaware of the growing body of work written in French, indicative of a persistent divide between fran­ cophone and anglophone scholarship on North American religion.17 Second, we saw the need to depart from the major currents in previous studies that, as noted, largely focused on quantitative surveys, theoret­ ical or philosophical paradigms, and institutional processes. Instead, we shared a collective interest in exploring the creative ways that peo­ ple engage religion on an everyday, piecemeal, and local basis. There are a number of antecedents for this kind of work in Quebec. Notably, in the late 1960s and 1970s sociologists, such as Raymond Lemieux and Colette Moreux, produced close­grained ethnographies of Catholicism in a single parish. Their studies corresponded with broader trends animating a transatlantic dialogue between scholars in Quebec and France who were working towards developing a histoire vécue (lived history) that moved beyond official state or Church records.18 Scholars in this tradition married mid­century continental phenomenology with a fieldwork approach to religion championed by Sorbonne ethnologist Roger Bastide. They also found inspiration in the “monograph tradition” of US sociology, which had produced a number of book­length case studies. Robert and Helen Lynd on reli­ gion in Middletown and Horace Miner on Saint­Denis parish were among the texts widely read in Quebec.19

Introduction

7

Yet mid­century parish sociologies – for example, Moreux’s well­ known monograph from 1969 – still reflected rather rigid definitions of religion based on theological dogma and functionalist assumptions about social utility. In the late 1990s, religion vécue (lived religion) revived again, this time among anglo­American scholars familiar with aspects of the pioneering work of French historians and sociolo­ gists.20 Recently, this trend has become more explicit in Quebec espe­ cially among junior scholars in anthropology and sociology, includ­ ing some of the contributors here. The shared orientation of our chapters could thus be loosely categorized in the following ways: (a) informed by an ethnographic and phenomenological sensibility that focuses on subjective experiences, with a resulting tendency towards more textured, localized studies, (b) privileging qualitative work over functionalist, theoretical, or classificatory schemas, (c) attentive to ambiguity, complexity, and multivocality – both in terms of people’s experiences and more broadly with regard to conventional categories in the study of religion.21 As Randall Balmer points out in this volume’s afterword, how­ ever, the (re)turn to “lived religion” is not without its problems. In the United States, where there was a cascade of studies in this vein in the early to mid­2000s, it has come under scrutiny for being a term, as he writes, “so capacious as to render it almost mean­ ingless: What is not ‘lived religion’?” These debates, well known in anglophone North America have an interesting counterpoint in Quebec where the more phenomenological style championed by lived religionists was not strongly represented in the 1990s and early 2000s. Following the political changes described in more detail below, francophone studies in this period focused instead on building robust quantitative measurements of religious adherence and revising earlier assumptions about the history of (Catholic) religious institutions. Since the mid­2000s, Québécois scholars have also made major contributions to the analysis and creation of gov­ ernment programs, such as the new public school curriculum and protections for religious patrimoine.22 Where our volume benefits from the religion vécue approach, then, is that it allows us to characterize religion more broadly than many

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Hillary Kaell

of these previous studies. To that end, as intimated above, we do not assume that “real” religion is either otherworldly or inherently social or characterized by a natural differentiation between private and public spheres. Rather, we approach it as a densely textured complex of beliefs, practices, and relationships that are historically emplaced and contingent. It can be tensile and ambivalent, subversive and constraining, intentional and habitual. This understanding is broad by design, as are the ways each chapter may express it. The goal was not to restrict our collective effort only to particular fields such as anthropology that overlap comparatively neatly onto a religion vécue model. Rather, contributors incorporate aspects of this per­ spective in ways that make sense within their respective disciplines, as is evident for example in the chapters by Sharify­Funk and Guzik or Labrecque. Taking the latter as a case in point, Labrecque’s contri­ bution from the perspective of philosophy and ethics ends with a call for a broader yet structured typology of religion and secularism that encompasses the techno­religions he examines. Other contributors have little interest in such a project and may even reject the necessity of definitional norms at all. What we share, however, are a particular set of priorities. First, as should be clear, we do not seek to make declarations about whether or not religion is societally relevant nor offer recommendations for how it can best be managed by governmental bodies. We also leave out a focused consideration of Catholic priests and female religious, along with biographical studies of well­known thinkers or artists. These topics are well covered elsewhere.23 We do not ignore ques­ tions about religious change – modernity, secularism, immigrant integration – that are important themes in recent scholarship in Quebec, but nor do we assume their centrality a priori. In short, we try to frame our studies to reflect what matters to the people with whom we work. When we take up questions of religious change, as many of our chapters do, we attend to their experience and inter­ pretation of events, rather than focus on organizers, theologians, and pundits. None of this implies, of course, that “regular” people lack ideas or theologies. Quite the opposite, in fact. Religion, as we conceive it, operates on multiple levels at once – institutionalized

Introduction

9

and less so, discursive and embodied. It is one part of the multifac­ eted way that Québécois observe, interact in, and think about the world in which they live.

a short history of religion in quebec It is not without some sense of irony that I now turn to a “top down” historical summary, however it seems a necessary concession in order to acquaint readers with a narrative that may be unfamiliar. This is especially true in terms of religious history, where Quebec occupies a rather unique position between two primary models in the West: unlike many European countries, it never had an established church paid for directly through taxes; unlike the rest of North America, it never developed a pattern of voluntary denominationalism. In 1608, French explorer Samuel de Champlain erected a small fort at a natural harbour in what is now called the Saint Lawrence River. The Algonquins called the place kebec, “where the river narrows,” and it was from this toehold that French settlers built the city of Quebec and then spread out along the river, founding new towns and villages. Under Louis XIV, the colony was reorganized into the seigneurial sys­ tem and large estates were divided into tenant farms. The Recollets had sent the first missionaries in 1615 but now religion was formal­ ized: a seminary opened in 1663 and the diocese of Quebec was estab­ lished in 1674, with dominion over all of North America. The colony’s Reformation­era Catholicism was communal, hierarchical, and all encompassing, coloured by a continual round of daily prayers, Sunday masses, and religious holy days. Historians sometimes draw a parallel between New France and Puritan New England to the south: the canadiens, as the French colonists were called, created a society that was “a mix of idealism and intolerance, generosity and proselytism, the spirit of enterprise and traditionalism.”24 In the eighteenth century, a series of political shocks drastically altered this world. French expansion into the Ohio Valley set off the tinderbox of English­French relations. They went to war, ending with France formally ceding its territory in 1763. The Catholic Church was left with many of its buildings in shambles, cut off from the

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French religious orders that supplied its clergy, and, most troubling of all, under a hostile Protestant crown. Britain, however, was eyeing the American Revolution brewing to the south. In order to ensure that their new subjects would not defect, they passed the Quebec Act in 1774 that guaranteed liberty of language and religion. This opened a way for the Québécois Church to consolidate power within the British colony. Without French support, and further alienated by the tumult of the French Revolution, the bishopric set about creat­ ing a self­sustaining national church. It controlled hospitals, schools, and had a hand in local politics. Its ultramontane Catholicism was characterized by an elaborate cycle of devotional practices. Some scholars suggest that the century from c. 1840 to 1940 should in fact be viewed as a protracted religious revival following the trauma of conquest and the failure of subsequent rebellions.25 At an ideological level, Québécois intellectuals (clerical and lay) argued that the survival of French Canada rested on la foi, la langue, la race (faith, language, race). They made sense of the conquest by envisioning French­Canadians as “a holy remnant in North America, the seedbed of a Catholic civilization” with a mission to nurture the faith and spread it even to the outer reaches of the dominion the English saw as theirs. With the bishops’ encouragement, French­ Canadians colonized north from the Saint Lawrence River basin, west into Manitoba and Saskatchewan, and south into the US state of Louisiana.26 In many ways Quebec also served as a point of reference for the fledging Catholicism developing in anglo­America. European pamphlets and reading materials were translated in Montreal and sent on to cities like Baltimore, New York, and Chicago. French Canada provided tales of North American heroes for US Catholics and a spectre of the licentious Other for nativist Protestants.27 As republicanism and secularism threatened the Church in France, Québécois elites, including newly arrived French clergy, began to promote a vision of the province as a timeless place, where an ide­ alized rural peasantry guarded the religion that Europe seemed bent on destroying. Even today, this image appeals to popular nostalgia.28 Yet it is important to underline that nineteenth and early twentieth century Quebec was by no means unchanging. If we think merely in

Introduction

11

religious terms, the human landscape altered significantly: English Protestant loyalists arrived during the American Revolution, followed by a wave of British immigrants who came to control the province’s nascent industries. Other Europeans, including Irish, Italians, Greeks, Ukrainians, Jews, and Poles poured in to work in factories and mines. Nearly a million French­Canadians moved southward to find work in New England’s mills. By 1950, less than 17 per cent of the labour force was employed in agriculture. By 1971, nearly a third of the population lived in Montreal, which is still the case today. Among French­Canadians, religious practice remained very high through the 1960s, even in urban areas.29 Despite these demographic shifts, the province of Quebec (so­named after 1867) still remained primarily French­Canadian due, in large part, to remarkably high birth rates.30 It was clear, however, that European immigration had outstripped French­Canadian col­ onization in Western Canada. In response, early twentieth­century French­Canadian elites formulated a new understanding of iden­ tity, focused more narrowly on the geographic territory of Quebec. The rising bourgeoisie protested the English control of economy and federal politics, calling for Québécois to become “maîtres chez nous” (masters in our own house), as early nationalist slogans said. Tensions were exacerbated by provincial leader Maurice Duplessis’ corrupt political machine (1936–59), which Catholic Church leaders supported in exchange for maintaining their central role in civil soci­ ety. It was said that Duplessis bragged about having the Church “in his pocket.”31 Things came to a head in 1960, fuelled by global events: national­ ist movements in former European colonies, the Civil Rights move­ ment in the US, and secularism measures in France.32 Jean Lesage’s Liberal Party, elected with the slogan “C’est le temps que ça change” (It’s time that it changes), inaugurated a period of intensive and rapid modernization that became known as the Quiet Revolution. Quebec, it was felt, needed to “catch up” (la rattrapage) with other nations in the West. The birthrate fell from the highest in North America to one of the lowest in the world.33 The government expanded its reach, created new roads and infrastructure, nationalized natural resources

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Hillary Kaell

and industries, centralized and expanded the public school system. It divested the Church of its former role in public institutions. Language and citizenship now seemed the key to Québécois survival, not faith. A broad­based movement to separate from Canada gained traction, culminating in narrowly defeated referenda in 1980 and 1995. The Quiet Revolution has often been portrayed as a popular revolt that produced a sudden rupture from an era of religious “dark­ ness” (la grande noirceur).34 Spurred in part by a path­breaking essay by sociologists J.­M. Meunier and J.­P. Warren in 1999, revisionist historians have now redressed many of the binaries this narrative implies.35 Scholars have shown how agitation for change long pre­ dated the 1960s and came from within Catholic circles too. The Second Vatican Council, coterminous with the Quiet Revolution, made evident that there had always been “various Catholicisms” in Quebec, to paraphrase theologian Gilles Routhier.36 Events in Rome also changed the international Church’s relationship to modernity. As a result, the Québécois bishops accepted political reorganization with “relative serenity” yet insisted that Catholicism remained rel­ evant to the public moral conscience – a stance that made sense to many Québécois. Catholic voices were encouraged to participate in the public sphere, especially around issues of social justice.37 At the same time, according to historian Michael Gauvreau, the bishops were complicit in the province’s rapid “dechristianization.” Caught up in the aggiornamento of Vatican II, they began to define “true Christianity” as a combination of personalism and democratic socialism, which they positioned as antithetical to the generationally based devotional Catholicism then prevalent in Quebec. Even in dio­ cese where attendance was still more than 80 per cent in the 1970s, church leaders sought to create a “culture of religious anxiety” to convince parishioners of the inadequacy of their faith. Such ideologi­ cal shifts, Gauvreau notes, held few attractions for ordinary people.38 Quebec saw its population refashioned again with migrations in the 1970s and 1980s. These changes most directly affected Montreal. Faced with ascendant French­Canadian nationalism, many anglo­ phones (often Protestant or Ashkenazi Jewish) relocated to the rest of Canada. At the same time, new populations of North Africans,

Introduction

13

Vietnamese, Haitians, and other francophones arrived, an influx made possible by the 1962 revision of Canadian immigration laws biased in favour of white Europeans.39 By the mid­1990s, two major trends had become evident to scholars of religion and to the public at large. First, it was clear that new immigrants were bringing new religions, especially Buddhism and Islam. Second, the French­descent population maintained high levels of Catholic belief and self­reported affiliation, while their level of religious practice plummeted. The Church lost 50 per cent of its members in a single decade. Weekly church attendance went from 88 per cent in the 1960s to less than 15 per cent today – by far the lowest in North America.40

developing the study of religion in quebec Until the 1950s, French sociology of religion was largely entwined with the Catholic Church, a pattern also reflected in Quebec.41 For a century, the Québécois Church had controlled francophone higher education, including the province’s flagship institution, the University of Laval. Collaboration occurred on many fronts and in fact gave rise to early social scientific studies: in the 1950s, parish reports provided invaluable statistics for a budding sociology of religion; in the 1960s, Laval sociologists headed the Church’s grandes missions, multiyear studies to establish pastoral unity; in the 1970s, the Church commissioned some of the first comprehensive histories of religion in Quebec.42 Many pioneers in the development of social sci­ entific approaches were also theologians or clergy, such as Jean­Paul Rouleau (founding president of the Société Québécoise pour l’étude de la religion in 1989), Fr Raymond Bourgault (leader of the “religi­ ologie” movement at uqam in the 1970s), and Fr Richard Bergeron (pioneer of the study of new religious movements at his Centre d’in­ formation sur les nouvelles religions).43 While Catholicism certainly coloured their studies – Fr Bergeron, for example, sought ways to bring nrm followers under the umbrella of a more expansive Church – they also argued for a clear demarcation between religious studies and the theology and biblical hermeneutics that dominated univer­ sity departments at the time.44

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Hillary Kaell

Traces of this close relationship remain (a recent study still felt it expedient to clarify that “religious” did not mean someone “who has joined a religious order, living in community to accomplish a spe­ cific task in the Church”).45 Fundamentally, however, there has been major growth in social scientific approaches to religion in Quebec over the last twenty­five or so years, which have laid the groundwork for the chapters in this volume. The reasons for this shift are various, but a few important ones should be highlighted. First, Québécois scholars were reading, and contributing to, broader discussions borne of post­modernism and globalization that began to deconstruct strict definitions of religion as referring to institutional churches or Christian theology. Second and closer to home, in the late 1980s influential sociological surveys showed that Catholicism had not sim­ ply disappeared following the Quiet Revolution. Consequently, more than their counterparts in rest of Canada, Québécois scholars in the 1990s developed a sophisticated literature often in conversation with colleagues in France that tracked institutional transformations in Catholicism, its interactions with secular nationalism, and manifes­ tations of a surviving “religious imagination” in new media, popular music, and literature.46 Scholars also began to classify the new reli­ gious movements they were seeing (especially) in Montreal, asking how these exemplified a spirituality with more permeable boundaries than had been hitherto acknowledged.47 Despite these new developments, in 2001 Guy Ménard and Jean­ Marc Larouche still concluded in a seminal volume that, “For various reasons, however, among which is undoubtedly the tenacious disputes in Québécois society regarding its own religious past, this expansion of diverse interests [in religious studies] remains largely unknown – and often misunderstood.”48 Over the next five to ten years, the situation changed considerably. Scholarly interest in, and government funding for, social scientific studies of religion grew at an unprecedented rate, not least because of public debates about increased Muslim immigra­ tion – a discourse circulating across the Atlantic between France and Quebec, as Sharify­Funk and Guzik note in this volume. Shadowing these discussions was the ever­present question of how Québécois nationalism intersected with what we might call, after Étienne Balibar

Introduction

15

and others, a “catho­laïcité” where Catholic traces still occupy a pow­ erful place in the putative “neutral” or “secular” public sphere.49 These questions were amplified as the province transitioned away from a confessional public education system after 2005 and in the media sur­ rounding the Bouchard­Taylor Commission after 2006.50 The scholarship in Everyday Sacred is a product of this ongoing period of ferment. It seems appropriate, then, that each of its three sections is loosely structured around themes that have been central in Quebec – pluralism, materiality, and new movements – and also dovetails with the work on modernity and secularism discussed above. The goal in grouping the chapters this way is to lend some coherence without being overly reductive; readers are encouraged to find confluences within each section but also across them. As with any edited volume, readers will undoubtedly notice some of what is absent too. I would have liked to include studies of Northern Quebec, travel outside of the province, and workplace spirituality, to name just a few topics for which I was unable to find chapter writ­ ers.51 In choosing the contributors, I also prioritized a mix of schol­ ars working in and outside of Quebec, as well as francophones and anglophones. This focus necessitated some decisions. In our meeting together, we discussed sometimes­delicate issues of terminology: we chose “Québécois” over “Quebecker” and opted to use “French­ Canadian” in historical contexts with a mix of terms for the present, including de souche and French­descent majority. We also agreed to translate chapters written in French into English for ease of reading. I did, however, encourage authors to retain citations in either language and to refer to the secondary sources most germane in their respec­ tive fields rather than attempt to identify a shared canon; although this may mean that some citations are unfamiliar, ultimately I hope it underlines the multivocality of studies of religion in North America. That said, the volume is pitched primarily to English­speaking audiences. As a result, I have weighted the footnotes in this introduc­ tion towards English­language sources where possible, although bilin­ gual readers will find ample resources for further reading in French. Thinking of a potential US audience, I also approached Randall Balmer to write an afterword, since his work has been integral to the

16

Hillary Kaell

development of studies of contemporary religion in the United States. The decision to include his contribution was thus a conscious one (rather than, for example, choosing pioneering Québécois scholars, such as Michel Despland or Louis Rousseau). The goal is to anchor Quebec within the broader landscape of North American studies of religion, thereby encouraging readers – including those previously unfamiliar with studies of Quebec – to more deeply consider its rel­ evance to their work.

Section I: Worship and Practice The volume’s first section orients the discussion of religious pluralism around worship and practice. Generally, religious pluralism has been studied in two complementary ways in Quebec. First, it is a core prin­ ciple for scholars and members of the public who are seeking to more consciously engage local models of secularism, beyond either French laïcité or anglo­American multiculturalism.52 This remains a conver­ sation in the making, as events in 2013 attest. Some scholars in this field, and most public policy makers, prefer the term interculturalism, as proposed by Bouchard and Taylor; others opt for something more akin to former French president Nicholas Sarkozy’s “positive secular­ ism” that does not view religion as an ipso facto threat to the state.53 Yet others argue that only a “republican inspired” laïcité, which rids public institutions of religion, can serve as the precondition for true pluralism. In order to fend off accusations of xenophobia, some members of this camp contend that this version of Québécois laïcité dates back to the late eighteenth century, long predating concerns about contemporary immigration.54 Although each of these perspec­ tives clearly differs, they are united in implying a “French­Canadian” subject who implements or rejects various modes of secularism. Second, pluralism is explored from “the other side” as it were in studies that track the integration of immigrants. In 2000, only 5 per cent of Québécois studies of recent immigration analyzed religion.55 Today, that has begun to change. A prominent recent volume, Le Québec après Bouchard-Taylor (2012), draws together multiyear studies of four groups in Montreal: Buddhists from Cambodia, Hindus

Introduction

17

from Sri Lanka, Muslims from the Maghreb, and Pentecostals from Sub­Saharan Africa. Using a Belgian sociological model, the authors argue that Québécois immigrants develop an “ethnic conscience,” a religious subjectivity formed through interactions in a place that retains us/them distinctions.56 To this, the authors add the notion of “identity recomposition,” which recognizes the fluidity of religious identities, especially for the second generation.57 As Bouchard and Taylor point out, pluralism remains an especially fraught issue in Quebec since it is often perceived as “a face­off between two minority groups, each of which is asking the other to accommodate it. The members of the eth­ nocultural majority are afraid of being swamped by fragile minorities that are worried about their future.” French­descent Québécois, they conclude, “are still not at ease with their twofold status as a majority in Québec and a minority in Canada and North America.”58 Our chapters contribute to these discussions by defining religion holistically, by which I mean that we trace how it fits into everyday life in ways that so often trouble the implied dualisms in discussions about the “secular and sacred” or “founding” religions and the rest. Thus the chapters chosen for inclusion in this section focus on plu­ ralism (or interculturalism) as it operates through practices that may or may not be considered “integration” in the sense that scholars usually define it. Indeed, some chapters refer to issues of intercultur­ alism only obliquely, since religious practitioners may not recognize themselves as part of a pluralistic religious landscape regardless of how scholars classify them. Last, this section also blurs the dichot­ omy between majority and minority populations by including chap­ ters about a variety of groups, including indigenous people, those of French­descent, and more recent immigrants. The first two chapters, by anthropologist Géraldine Mossière and sociologists Frédéric Parent and Hélène Charron, set the tone for these complicated configurations. In Mossière’s chapter she flips the usual story around to explore overlapping modes of minority assimilation within African Pentecostal congregations in Montreal. What Mossière shows is that young members actually draw on Pentecostalism to succeed within Quebec’s neoliberal capitalist market. Further, minority assimilation occurs on another level,

18

Hillary Kaell

which is virtually ignored in the scholarship on religion thus far: the inclusion of church members from the French­descent majority who are minorities within the Congolese­led congregation. Parent and Charron’s chapter moves in another direction. A contemporary update on the parish study tradition of the 1970s, it immerses readers in the world of a single village on the Saint Lawrence River. This chapter, taken together with mine in the next section, reminds us that rural religion has its own rhythms and hab­ its, which have received much less scholarly attention than urban and suburban religion in Quebec (and in North America as a whole). Its “invisibility,” as Parent and Charron note, is especially acute when women are the central players. In order to bring women’s practice into view, the chapter focuses on the lay­led Eucharistic ceremonies that have followed the amalgamation of rural parishes. Parent and Charron argue that women facilitate changes that are rejected by many men in the “founding” (de souche) families. We are left with a portrait of rural religion in transition, whereby power is shifting from the male­dominated, geographically rooted parish towards a more flexible female­run system that is organizationally based. The next two chapters in this section, by Jewish studies scholar Norma Baumel Joseph and anthropologist Laurent Jérôme, highlight the impact of sensory studies in work on contemporary religion. Joseph’s chapter brings the reader back to Montreal, offering a more traditional study of urban immigrant integration. However, she does so by tracing commensality: how people prepare, eat, and share food. These subtle pathways allow Joseph to show how food – namely, an Iraqi Jewish dish called t’beet – may reflect and produce continuity between generations, even when (and sometimes because) its ingredi­ ents or ritual uses change. Exploring complementary issues of generational continuity through a different sensory lens, Jérôme’s chapter delves into the world of young Atikamekw drummers from Wemotaci (in Haute­ Mauricie). The “sonar landscape,” as Jérôme puts it, of their eclectic musical tastes produces a new traditionalism whereby tewehikan drumming becomes an ever­changing aspect of young indigenous identity.

Introduction

19

Tying together many of the chapters in this section is the idea that, quoting French anthropologist Gérard Lenclud in Jérôme’s chapter, tradition “is traditionally invented and recreated.”59 In other words, whether or not traditions are perceived as a stable heritage received from the past, they are in fact dynamic and changing. This theme is perhaps most evident in chapters that track intergenerational trans­ mission, whether it is young Atikamekw drummers who self­con­ sciously embody aspects of their spiritual/musical past or young Congolese Pentecostals who embrace certain traditional modes of sociality while discarding those that stymie neoliberal aspirations. The chapters by Jérôme and Joseph also clarify the delicate balance between asking and telling that can characterize transmission and rupture: How do the young know who and what to ask in order to recuperate aspects of lost tradition? What if elders believe that they are not ready to receive certain bodies of knowledge, as has been the case among the Atikamekw? What if elders lack the necessary skills themselves, as among Iraqi Jews? Finally, and importantly for this volume, how do these dynamics colour activities, such as drumming or cooking, that can be considered religious when the category is broadly defined, yet are clearly not “religion” per se? Indeed, in both Joseph’s and Jérôme’s chapters we glimpse religion qua religion only fleetingly. Instead, the authors remind us to train our vision beyond recognizably “religious” objects, such as rituals or theological state­ ments, in order to see how nondiscursive forms produce a sense of “being” Iraqi or Atikamekw that interweave religion, culture, and community.

Section II: Publics & Places Nondiscursive forms are highly relevant in the second section too. Over the last decade, the study of religion has taken a “material turn.”60 Although work on Québécois religion has rarely explicitly engaged this theme by way of material culture studies, it is familiar nonethe­ less. The bodily and material aspects of religion are foregrounded with particular clarity in Catholic (or perhaps “Catho­laïque”) places like Quebec, where devotional objects, statues, and churches have been

20

Hillary Kaell

essential parts of the landscape. As Mark Twain quipped during his 1881 visit, in Montreal “you couldn’t throw a brick without breaking a church window.”61 Not surprisingly, Québécois scholars have scrutinized the issue of religious objects and places more intensely than many of their anglo­American peers. This interest has been driven partly by Catholic communities’ own demands for protective measures of heritage objects, as well as government funding priorities. As anthropologist Richard Handler showed in the 1980s, Québécois nationalism played a major role in the government’s promotion of Catholic heritage as a shared, secular­national identity.62 Policy makers were also reacting to the rapid sale of churches, and in 1989 the provincial government funded an inquiry by sociologist Serge Gagnon that led to the estab­ lishment of the Religious Heritage Council.63 In the early to mid­ 2000s, the government created a number of university chairs with a direct or partial focus on religious heritage, financed an international conference and book series on the subject, and called a committee to issue recommendations for preservation.64 The scholarly work that has emerged concentrates primarily on Catholic things and places but also includes religious minorities deemed “historically rooted” (historiquement enracinées), namely Jewish and Protestant commu­ nities that settled before the 1940s.65 Studies in this field presume that there is societal value – both aesthetic and didactic – in keeping religious artefacts intact and accessible to the public. They are also aware that heritage is a new construction of the past, a “continu­ ity born of rupture.”66 From a pragmatic perspective, then, heritage scholars ask two major questions: Which things are (re)imagined as societally valuable? And how can a (secular) government work with (religious) publics to ensure their preservation? Inclusive definitions of religious heritage (Catholic­Protestant­ Jewish) provide one way to materialize – and thereby reify – the idea of multiple founding “cultures” in Quebec. Heritage studies are thus a celebration of diversity, albeit one that is heavily shaped by gov­ ernment surveys, inventories, and museum displays.67 This view of heritage also offers a counterpoint to the other major node of public discussion about material religion in Quebec, which focuses on the

Introduction

21

troubling presence of things associated with religious “others,” such as the Muslim hijab, the Sikh turban and kirpan, or the Jewish eruv. The chapters in this section take up some of these themes by jux­ taposing a number of publics and places – better or lesser known – to address the relationship between humans and objects and some of the emotions (affective or anxious) that result. The section opens with my chapter on wayside crosses, which brings us back to the rural villages discussed by Parent and Charron. My study explores two overlapping public “gatherings”: the confluence of things in the landscape around each cross and the gathering of people in prayer intermittently during the year. I argue that a more robust portrait of religion in rural life requires an approach to place that looks for points of convergence where things, people, and words come together. Historian Emma Anderson’s chapter also looks at gatherings at Catholic devotional sites. She introduces readers to pilgrimage places around Quebec that continue to draw millions of visitors a year. Drawing on recent marketing surveys, she uncovers some rather star­ tling finds related to just how many Québécois travel for religious rea­ sons, such as healing. At the same time, she complicates the dichot­ omy between “traditional religion” and “secular heritage” by showing how the pilgrimages retain multiple and often contradictory meanings. Importantly, and unlike the wayside crosses, the places in Anderson’s text bring together new and varied publics, including a diverse group of tourists, Hindus, and conservative and liberal Catholics. This portrait of pilgrimage places overlaps with the section’s third chapter in the sense that international relations scholars Meena Sharify­Funk and Elysia Guzik also examine how new publics are created and reinforced in the context of marked, public objects. The chapter begins by examining the historical roots of hijab con­ troversies in France and Quebec, especially in the school system. The authors then highlight voices that are routinely muffled in the (extensive) scholarship on the regulation of hijab in Quebec, namely those of Muslim activists and community leaders. Sharify­Funk and Guzik take a network approach that traces how Québécois Muslims draw on a universalizing set of ideas about rights, secularism, and

22

Hillary Kaell

gender equality. The result, argue the authors, is the circulation of (at least) two types of “feminisms” in Quebec’s public sphere: the “hijab out” policies of state feminists and the “hijab in” arguments of civic groups, Muslim and non­Muslim. While educational cur­ ricula, policy statements, and media reports clearly differ from the physical gatherings associated with wayside crosses or pilgrimage shrines, they are still key sites of exchange. The resulting mingling of voices and ideas establishes sometimes surprising points of con­ tact between disparate communities. Importantly, Sharify­Funk and Guzik’s chapter, taken together with the chapters by Mossière and Joseph in section one, points to how Quebec provides an opportu­ nity to explore identity contestations in a setting where minority and majority populations experience identity insecurity. A related theme in this section and the previous one concerns how religion/secularism intersects with claims of a “distinctive” identity. As Jérôme demonstrates vis­à­vis the Atikamekw drummers, reli­ gious traditions often constitute privileged political tools for the rec­ ognition of such identities. In my case study of wayside crosses, for example, Catholicism clearly legitimizes ties between people, things, and terrain that inform a politics of Québécois distinctiveness. Yet the rural people who participate in cross maintenance rarely need to state what is for them an embodied experience of being there. By con­ trast, Mossière shows how young Montreal­based immigrants explic­ itly prioritize a Christian identity over an African one as a strategy for inclusion in mainstream Québécois society. While African immi­ grants concur with rural cross caretakers that Christianity is both relevant today and inherently Québécois, they have in mind a trans­ national Pentecostalism keyed as “Western” and neoliberal. Clearly, their aim of evangelizing the province (away from Catholicism in whatever form) is fundamentally at odds with the cross caretakers’ view of an always already Catholic Quebec. These two chapters, along with Sharify­Funk and Guzik’s chap­ ter on the hijab, show how strategies to position religious practices or mores as a relevant public good require reconfiguring them as eminently “modern.” Pro­hijab advocates, for example, argue that wearing a veil is a public expression of women’s right to individual

Introduction

23

choice, thus concurring to some degree with contemporary feminism. On that note, it is worth underlining another way that such cate­ gories are subject to multiple valences at the grassroots. Writing of elite, educated Jewish immigrants from Iraq, Joseph discovers some­ thing similar to Mossière’s study of transnational Pentecostalism. In both cases, the category of “religion” is infinitely complicated by how recent arrivals in Canada may view their religious identity as conter­ minous with being Western and modern, regardless how society­at­ large may define it. In fact, Joseph argues that Iraqi Jews take this idea even further, since for them being “Jewish” was the assertion of a secular identity in the context of the Muslim majority they knew in Iraq. A final theme of note concerns gender. Sharify­Funk and Guzik’s chapter foregrounds gender as key to how the French­descent major­ ity has come to define modernity since the Quiet Revolution. Other chapters, including those by Joseph, Parent and Charron, and me, highlight how gendered labour operates in the transmission and renegotiation of religious traditions. Along with Sharify­Funk and Guzik’s, these chapters are profitably compared in order to better understand the varied ways that gender impacts internal community dynamics and externalized debates related to the public sphere.

Section III: New Frontiers & the Beyond New religious movements (nrms), “nones,” and spiritual seeking have emerged as major topics in the study of contemporary religion in Quebec. Based on sociologist Rodney Stark’s classic work on nrms, one can argue that the province is an especially “favorable ecology.” According to Stark’s paradigm, nrms flourish best in places that have undergone rapid secularization and disruptive societal conditions. In particular, he argues that dismantling a religious monopoly could pro­ duce a vast “unchurched” population no longer satisfied with adher­ ence to a single religion and drawn to a plethora of diverse options previously unavailable.68 Especially since the 1990s, Québécois schol­ ars have worked to define the contours of this change, noting certain divergences from patterns in France and the rest of North America.

24

Hillary Kaell

In particular, public opinion in Quebec is characterized by a strong suspicion of institutional religion (especially when it comes to chil­ dren’s education) but also rejects the militant anticlericalism or laïcité that has received significant attention in France. Québécois, especially young (mainly urban) people of French descent, tend to be experi­ mental and open to a wide variety of spiritual trends, drawing on pan­American and global trends.69 As early as 1992, sociologist Alain Bouchard noted that the New Age movement in Quebec developed as US books were imported and translated, notably Marilyn Ferguson’s 1980 bestseller The Aquarian Conspiracy.70 The chapters in this section, by anthropologist Deirdre Meintel and ethicist Cory Andrew Labrecque, are linked to previous ones through questions about institutionalism. As a number of chap­ ters show (most explicitly those by me, Anderson, and Parent and Charron), the continued circulation of Catholic things and imagery among the French­descent majority relies on (real and constructed) memories of Catholic institutionalism that often develop new forms or valences. This issue has been approached especially profitably in studies of nrms since they have been able to carefully consider what Meintel calls “new forms of religious belonging.” As she notes of the spiritualists she studies, these forms may greatly depend on Catholic ideas and rituals but participants understand them as inherently fluid and hybridized, offering radically new avenues for healing and wor­ ship based on Eastern and indigenous religions. Importantly, spiritu­ alism is perceived as “spiritual” in stark opposition to “religion” in an institutional sense, yet congregations are also constantly in flux; people may attend for short periods or on occasion while attending “mainstream” churches too. Labrecque’s chapter offers a complementary example of tensile social formations, this time online and through loose international networks of transhumanists. Transhumanism is a movement that seeks to accelerate human capabilities by means of science and tech­ nology, extending to prolonging human life perhaps indefinitely. This is a “beyond” that leapfrogs over questions about hybridized reli­ gious practices or socialities, treading instead into deep theological/ ethical waters that question the very limits of the human body: Can

Introduction

25

we become “like” gods? Ultimately, can we cheat death altogether? Transhumanists differ greatly from spiritualists, not least because the members of Meintel’s congregations are self­consciously “doing” something spiritual (indeed, they carefully craft their social/spiritual world) whereas most transhumanists deny they are believers even if, as Labrecque shows, the religious implications are various. Labrecque also points out that transhumanists do share some­ thing in common with many nrms in Quebec, namely how “new forms” (to quote Meintel) may bind the ostensibly disparate worlds of science and religion. Sociologist Susan Palmer has made this point most succinctly, arguing that Québécois favour new religions, like the Raelians, that base their authority in science and technology. This technophilia, she suggests, is derived from their urge to leap into the “modern age” after the Quiet Revolution and be more fully in con­ trol of their environs – to be “maîtres chez nous” to again quote the famous nationalist slogan.71 These shifts, along with robust laws pro­ tecting freedom of religion, have produced a flourishing of “eclectic or schismatic movements as well as the local branches of interna­ tional magical­arcane, theosophical, or ufo­inspired groups.”72 Québécois scholarship on nrms is part of a lively discussion about religious trends shared across the late modern West; Meintel’s and Labrecque’s chapters clearly situate spiritualists and transhumanists, respectively, within larger transnational networks. Yet it is also import­ ant that the movements they detail not be considered in isolation from the trends in the other chapters. One goal of our volume is to bring together nrms and other forms of religious creativity (for example in my chapter and those by Jérôme or Joseph) into a holistic vision of religion in Quebec. Indeed, if anything the two studies in this final sec­ tion tie together a number of themes that are pertinent across many of our chapters: the impact of a contemporary (often urban) environment characterized by the kinds of choices that come with better access to information, the creative reappropriation of tradition, and a height­ ened emphasis on personal experience. As a result, we are seeing more flexible forms of religious hybridity and sociality that emphasize new technologies and find their basis in transnational or online networks, as demonstrated also by Mossière and Sharify­Funk and Guzik.

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Hillary Kaell

Everyday Sacred does more than gather disparate studies around a common topic. Our aim is to propel a shift in orientation for Québécois studies of religion towards recognizing how “institutional churches intermesh with the wider society,”73 while also focusing more squarely on how people encounter, create, and employ religion in everyday life. Detailing events ranging from public protests to religious worship to family dinners, our chapters explore a number of themes of interest to scholars of Québécois religion – about sec­ ularism, for example, or pluralism or the preservation of religious heritage. Yet, by expressly turning our attention to la religion vécue, we view these events not just in terms of public policy or legal cases but also as sites for a wide variety of practices and relationships. This focus leads us to define Québécois religion holistically, mov­ ing beyond (or certainly troubling) familiar scholarly dichotomies between Catholics and the rest, “founding” and immigrant religions, nrms and traditional institutions. The volume’s second goal is to bring Quebec more into view of English­speaking scholars of North American religion, including those in the United States. This move is not merely “inclusion for the sake of inclusion.”74 Rather, to include Quebec is to open up the potential for studies of American religion to be more truly “North American” – a term often used by anglo scholars to signal expansive­ ness, even while Quebec and Mexico (as actual places with actual peo­ ple) are routinely left out.75 It also situates North American religion within a context where Catholicism, not Protestantism, has been the stated (and unstated) rule, thereby providing a specific counterpoint to normative views of American religiosity.76 Last, greater attention to francophone scholarship – and thus to the kind of questions that animate a primarily Quebec­France dialogue – has the potential to counterbalance dominant theoretical perspectives in anglo­American studies of religion. For Québécois scholars, this book contributes to the push to recognize how “religion in Quebec” spills out well beyond the province’s borders. Québécois people creatively engage religious ideas and practices that come to them via a broad range of sources, from US spiritualists to Rama (Ontarian) drummers to Iraqi grandmothers to African televangelists. Randall Balmer’s afterword

Introduction

27

serves to highlight a few questions and avenues for further research that a comparative approach calls forth. It reminds scholars on both sides of the linguistic divide that the categories we often view as natu­ ral are the products of historically and culturally situated discourses. Everyday Sacred only scratches the surface of these potential inter­ sections. It is the beginning, we hope, of a more sustained conversation between scholars of contemporary religion, in and outside of Quebec.

Section One Worship and Practice

1 Pentecostal Immigrants in a Neoliberal Age: The Young and the Restless Géraldine Mossière In the United States, following the pioneering sociological work of Herbert J. Gans,1 many studies have understood church to have a posi­ tive effect on the settlement of immigrants. Scholars’ recognition of the role of religious groups in the local landscape echoes public opinion, which by and large applauds the participation of churches in the social life.2 Such is not the case in Quebec where, in the aftermath of many decades of a hegemonic ultramontane Catholicism, society entered a rapid and somewhat jarring process of secularization and modern­ ization that has lately attracted the attention of scholars.3 Because myths and memories constructed around the historical domination of the Catholic Church largely framed the construction of Québécois national identity, many Franco­Québécois find public expression of religious beliefs unwelcome and suspicious. However, since the late 1960s new waves of migration coming from the South have diversi­ fied the religious landscape.4 Besides the arrival of Buddhists, Sikhs, and Hindus, Muslim populations have grown and attracted signifi­ cant media attention in the last couple of decades, although they are still marginal in terms of their share of the overall population (3.2 per cent in 2011). In fact, Christian migrants comprised the majority of the immigrant population in 2011 (58.9 per cent), of whom 12.6 per cent were non­Catholics (Protestant, Charismatic, or Evangelical).5 In this context, Pentecostal ethnic churches that gather newcomers from South America, Asia, and Africa are thriving.6 The intense ethnic and religious diversification of the province coupled with the liberaliza­ tion of society generally have dramatically complexified the Québécois

32

Géraldine Mossière

social landscape in a context where the religious, linguistic, and demo­ graphic majority group had only been granted limited political power since the British conquest in 1759. This unique and fluctuating identity makes Quebec a case in point to explore the dynamic interplay of minority and majority groups that is so salient to religious diversity in North America. Interestingly, this unsteady distribution of power and resources, coupled with the subtle influence of French republican­ ism, has propelled a local political consciousness that aims to build national identity around issues of societal interaction, recognition, and inclusion of social groups. The turmoil that accompanies the affirma­ tion of such a political philosophy in this immigrant North American society may shed light on the discrepancies and possibilities offered by alternative communitarian models. In fact, the presence of minority religious groups in Quebec has lately raised lively debates about the extent to which the host soci­ ety should consent to accommodation in order to safeguard prac­ titioners’ special needs while still maintaining social cohesion and a common sense of belonging. This perspective rarely takes into account the notion of integration that ethnic and religious minori­ ties themselves convey. This chapter, which introduces the section on pluralism in our volume, offers an original perspective on the way new Christian minorities intermesh with wider Québécois soci­ ety, in particular, I examine Québécois converts and African­born immigrants in Congolese Pentecostal churches located in Montreal. Here I contend that taking into account the internal social interac­ tions in minority groups and their often­complex rhetoric regarding common belonging is productive in thinking about possibilities for social cohesion. More recent research has begun to uncover a large variety of approaches to settlement and integration within the host society.7 For example, one leader of a regional mosque evoked the notion of arrouhsatou (exemption in Arabic) which theorizes the adjustments that Islamic practices may undergo in contexts where Muslims form a minority. Other findings show how Pentecostal multiethnic congre­ gations govern internal diversity, which sheds light on their particular view of social integration and the determinatives of societal cohesion.

Pentecostal Immigrants in a Neoliberal Age

33

In African churches, although founding members are usually from the same country (Democratic Republic of Congo), even sometimes from the same family, congregations also include participants from various ethnic backgrounds: most of them are from French­speaking Africa, a substantive minority is of Haitian descent, and a handful of members are from diverse backgrounds that are curiously some­ times deemed “white,” including people from the Caribbean, Latin America, and Québécois natives. Following the orientation of my colleagues who study lived religion “holistically,” I explore the social relationships and power structures between the dominant group and members of minorities to show how ethnicity is negotiated using an interculturalist rhetoric that is specific to Québécois’ views on vivre ensemble (living together). This tension is especially present within intergenerational relationships that make the Pentecostal message more operational for younger, well­educated and technologically skilled believers characterized by transnational profiles. The discourse on social and economic mobility suits this young popu­ lation particularly well, promoting a neoliberal identity that fits within the host society. As curious as it may seem, for this minority popula­ tion being Pentecostal means acting as model citizens and overcoming the predicaments of stigmatized ethnic and racial identities. Borrowing from political scientist Joanildo Burity’s discussion of neoliberalism in Pentecostal contexts, I argue that Pentecostals’ references to a neolib­ eral idiom represent as much the means to adjust to Québécois society as a strategy to counter its dominant model.8 Neoliberalism here refers to the emergence of economics (consum­ erism, market and management techniques, entrepreneurship, focuses on efficiency and competition, mediatization, globalization, etc.) as a paradigm that has pervaded “all aspects of social life in the last three decades.”9 Following Gauthier, Martikainen, and Woodhead, my study is part of an intellectual trend that focuses on the impacts of this new political economy on religious organizations, belief, practice, and behaviour.10 This approach is all the more relevant because, by pro­ jecting beyond national boundaries, it allows us to grasp transnational perspectives as well as local­global dynamics. These dynamics are par­ ticularly salient in the case of Pentecostalism where an ideology that

34

Géraldine Mossière

presents itself as universal thrives and spreads worldwide thanks to its symbolic flexibility and capacity to adjust to local worldviews. Although Catholicism has undoubtedly lost its hegemonic position as a religious, ethical and moral reference in the province, it still dis­ plays a certain vitality thanks to the many novel communities that have appeared in the aftermath of the Second Vatican Council as well as the reorganization of local parishes, as Parent and Charron note in their contribution to this volume. By and large, the persistence of Christianity in Quebec owes much to recent waves of immigrants who mostly import Charismatic and Pentecostal offshoots. A contemporary picture of the Québécois religious landscape must therefore document the significant presence of immigrant Pentecostal churches in the prov­ ince. This chapter is based on ethnographic fieldwork conducted in two Pentecostal churches that count members from French­speaking Africa (Cameroon, Togo, Benin, Burkina Faso, etc.) and Central Africa (Rwanda, Burundi). The Communauté Évangélique de Pentecôte (cep) was founded in 1992 and is composed of approximately 400 members based in a large building in the north end of the city. In Montreal, it is seen as the mother congregation of all Congolese churches and its pas­ tor, who studied theology in Belgium, is recognized as a moral and reli­ gious authority by his colleagues in other churches, to whom he acts as a mentor. The Assemblée Chrétienne de la Parole Vivante de Montréal (acpvm) was founded in 1995 with approximately 250 members and is currently headed by a pastor from Benin with his Congolese wife, whom he met during his studies in Paris. Both churches attract members younger than thirty years for whom the church is not only a place of worship but also a space to socialize. Apart from the members from French­speaking Africa who arrived in Quebec as Christians and who form the core group in the congregations, the three churches also attract people from other ethnic minority groups, such as Haitians who usually converted after their arrival in Quebec (upon contact with the Pentecostal church). Other countries are also represented (Dominican Republic, Morocco, Lebanon, etc.) and each congregation counts a handful of white Québécois who were Pentecostal Christians before joining the church. Both congregations are part of the neo­Pentecostal movement that appeared in the late 1980s. In addition to a funda­

Pentecostal Immigrants in a Neoliberal Age

35

mentalist reading of and specific focus on the Bible that is specific to Pentecostal groups, a theology of prosperity sanctifies materiality and advocates access to health and wealth, which are interpreted as bless­ ings from God in the immanent world and only offered to born­again believers who have “accepted Jesus in their lives.”11 I have been conducting intensive fieldwork in the cep since 2004 and in the acpvm since 2010 by means of observing Sunday services as well as social and religious activities. Formal and informal inter­ views have also been conducted with the pastors, heads of various ministries, and members with various profiles (with respect to gen­ der, ethnic origin, age, immigration status, and experience as well as socioeconomic status). This chapter draws on notes that were collected during sermons as well as during special activities related to settlement in the host society. Special attention will be paid to interviews collected among white Québécois who have joined these churches, based on the hypothesis that the perspectives of those situated at the margins of a group shed light on the dynamics that govern the centre.12 These data will also be contextualized within broader results from a large ethnographic project conducted among Québécois groups of various religious traditions.13

dynamics of ethnic diversity and christian belonging: an interculturalist rhetoric Celebrating Diversity ... [Our church is a] multiethnic church where Francophone, Anglophone, Hispanophone, Black, White, Métis, African, Creole, Québécois, Latino, Haitian mix with each other, in har­ mony and brotherhood of Jesus­Christ our Lord and Savior. acpvm website14

The above quote, on the main page of the acpvm’s website, echoes the narratives I collected from other Pentecostal churches. In an inter­ view, the pastor of the cep referred to the same idea: “We are a mul­ ticultural assembly that counts among his membership people from

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diverse countries.”15 All congregations emphasize an image of open­ ness and dynamism, especially on their websites, where pictures show both black and white youth smiling and mingling. In these Pentecostal churches, the leaders’ discourse reflects the interculturalist rhetoric that has framed the Québécois policy regarding the inclusion of immigrants for the two last decades. Like the multiculturalist model that prevails in the rest of Canada, interculturalism values the diversity of the pop­ ulation while at the same time institutionalizing a collective identity that is based on social and gender equity, the use of a common lan­ guage, and the creation of a common feeling of belonging.16 Likewise, church leaders promote the celebration of diversity among all ethnic minorities while giving prominence to the French language as well as equitable gender relations. As a result, sermons and Sunday rituals are primarily offered in French (with the exception of a few translations into English) and women are invited to become deaconesses (assistants to the minister of the church), conduct services, go back to school, drive cars, and have bank accounts; all opportunities that they rarely have in their home countries. Although this typical neo­Pentecostal discourse is not formally referred to as interculturalist by the church leaders, nor by the members of the congregation, it holds special mean­ ing in the Québécois context where the values it conveys contribute to deconstructing prejudices usually held against ethnic minorities related to their purported treatment of women and isolation. When church leaders promote such principles, the congregation aims at mirroring the ethics policy of the host society, vouching for its social inclusion in the collective project of vivre ensemble. Discourse promoting diversity within the membership refers to the inclusion of all ethnic minorities in the congregation’s religious services and social activities. During Sunday services, cultural expres­ sions of devotion are welcome (yuyus, bodily language, etc.) while each member is invited to bring a typical dish from their home coun­ try, dance, play music, and wear traditional garments. Cultural reli­ gious practices like sorcery or “fetishism” are however not tolerated as they contravene the norms of Christian worship. For example, a woman who reported having bad dreams at night was considered to have been bewitched during her previous travels back to Cameroon.

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As the presence of evil spirits endangered the conduct of the whole religious service, she had to undergo a ritual of exorcism that took place behind closed doors. Although sorcery is part of the local imag­ ination in Christian churches in Africa and is widely integrated into the rituals of the so­called “églises de réveil” there (the local label for Pentecostal churches), in Quebec such meaning systems are clearly ostracized as a way of distancing the church and its members from African worldviews that are perceived as backward and premodern. By contrast, ritual expressions of ethnic identity like yuyus, bodily gestures, or food sharing are considered cultural modes of faith, demonstrating the diversity of a community that is ultimately gath­ ered and consolidated around the celebration of shared Christian identity during Sunday services.

… Regulating Ethnicity In the two Pentecostal churches under study, the founding member’s ethnicity influences the congregation’s governance, social organiza­ tion, relationships, and modes of expression (aesthetic as well as cul­ tural). For example, all key positions within the church (assistant pastor, head of the ministry of women, of multimedia, of the choir) are reserved for the pastor, his wife, his family, people from the same educational background (who have studied together at Kinshasa or in Belgium) or coethnics, which in the case of the cep means people from the Domincan Republic of Congo (drc) and more specifically from Katanga (the pastor’s home province). Intergenerational rela­ tionships are framed according to the pastor’s cultural customs: elder members are called mamas and papas and must be addressed for­ mally. In informal meetings (so­called “cell meetings”), vernacular home languages (lingala in the drc) are sometimes used for the bene­ fit of the elders. During rituals, the music (melody, rhythms, or instru­ mental), as well as bodily expressions originate more often than not from the pastor’s homeland. Members from ethnic minorities adjust to this cultural idiom within the church. In the cep, a Haitian woman explained that, “as a cour­ tesy” to the pastor who paid her a visit, she tried cooking a Congolese

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dish. Nevertheless, expectations regarding black Haitian members are higher than for other ethnic minorities who are assigned a white iden­ tity, such as Brigitte, a young woman from the Dominican Republic with lighter skin who is considered “the young white girl.” Haitian women, for example, often try to dress in Congolese garments so as to smooth ethnic differences whereas “white” minority members do not. When asked about their choice of an African­style church, minority members often state that they cherish the transcendence of ethnic boundaries for the sake of common values such as family and community, thereby transposing what sounds like an intercultural­ ist rhetoric. Brigitte is a second­generation immigrant who speaks fluent French, English, and Spanish. She was first raised in Quebec in a Catholic­practising family and then decided to go back to her parents’ home country to study medicine. After an unsuccessful mar­ riage to a Dominican man, she came back to Montreal as a single mother only to find out that her education in medicine was not rec­ ognized by the province. During this depressing and stressful time in her life, her future husband led her to discover the acpvm where she found moral support and what she defines as a “family” to which she feels stronger ties than to her biological (Catholic) family. Her narrative exemplifies the type of social ties that Pentecostal churches build between their members of various ethnic backgrounds. She reports that she likes the tight­knit relationships that members main­ tain between themselves and with the pastor, which are modelled on African communitarianism. As a result, she considers herself close to the church, to the pastoral couple, and to its members and would turn to the pastor for advice rather than to her own mother. The narratives of most of the members of these ethnic minority groups draw on religious arguments and claim that their encounter with the church is no coincidence: God drove them there (for his own reasons), it is a place where the Christian message is right, and it is a place where they feel the presence of Jesus. For example, Luc, a Tunisian man of Jewish descent in his fifties, is a member of the acpvm. Although he is now separated from his wife, a woman from Togo who is part of the same church, he decided to remain a member because he says this is where he experienced the Holy Spirit while on

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retreat with the men of the church. When asked about his relation­ ships with the African majority within the church, he said: “Well, in the beginning, it was a bit difficult ... because you don’t know the people, you don’t know their customs, so a bit. But little by little, you understand, you learn.” For members of these churches, African­ style worship and liturgy are deemed closest to the Biblical precepts, to the extent that African customs are endorsed in the name of a spiritual quest for religious authenticity. A white Québécois woman decided to join the cep because she had been told that African peo­ ple’s prayers “contain more faith,” meaning they pray with deep faith, which is why they sometimes receive miracles from God. The com­ parison Brigitte draws between African and Latino churches clearly demonstrates this perceived link between Congolese customs and the authenticity of the Biblical values: Because Latinos are a bit more conservative ... Sometimes, in my church, when we praise the Lord, the pastor says: ‘Feel free if you wish it. Dance, jump if you like, do whatever you want.’ But for us, Latinos have a tendency to be a bit more conservative: ‘Oh you can’t dance in church.’ But who says you can’t dance in church? But it depends what kind of dance you do. If you are going to dance to world­beats that will incite you to do some­ thing you are not supposed to, then it’s normal, you can’t dance; it’s not ok. But if it’s for your God, it’s ok. King David danced like a mad man to praise God! In African Pentecostal churches, the presence of ethnically diverse groups is superseded by an alignment with a common cultural style of worship. This style of worship is experienced as the Biblically authentic mode of expression of faith and contributes to consolidat­ ing a shared Christian identity.

Inclusion and Tensions Especially for white Québécois members, the cultural mode of expression of African churches is sometimes sought for its exoticism:

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notably the music, the dances, and the collective exuberance that are understood as cultural modes of expression of faith. Yet they also report feeling somewhat oppressed by the implicit cultural rules that govern social relationships within the church, even those few indi­ viduals who are in mixed unions with an African member. Social conduct and interactions are indeed highly codified. For example, Elizabeth, a twenty­one­year­old white Québécoise who grew up in a Pentecostal environment, was interested by the aesthetic and cultural features of the Congolese church’s rituals. After coming back from a visit in drc with her hair gathered in an African braid, she told me: I love cultural chants, I sing these songs in Creole because they are songs that praise the Lord, so I think it’s good, whatever the language. I like to see them sing in their language and I join them, I dance. I am not as good as them, but I like it. I find Québécois churches boring, not enough life. I would like to see Spanish churches. I was there once. They were mostly old people. Her twenty­four­year­old friend Lucie shares the same attraction for Congolese ways of worshipping, but she still finds it difficult to cope with the influence of ethnicity on sociability: she notices that the mem­ bers who share a common background are used to associating together. She is also uneasy with the expectation that she call her elders “papa” and “mama,” which contains certain notions of authority. Finally, she is also bothered by the members’ concept of time and punctuality, when most of the African members are late in following the church’s schedule. She considers all these elements typical of an African way of conduct. As she is originally from the Quebec countryside, she reports she had to change her accent in order to make herself understood by the core members who are used to accents from France. Lucie experiences this compromise as a form of absorption by the African majority in the church: “Since I adapt quickly, they tend to say ‘oh, you are African.’ I say ‘no, I am a Québécois.’ I adapt, I have to do as they do, but I am still a Québécois. I don’t want to change everything. I try not to erect cultural barriers. What unites us is Jesus Christ.” Being part of the congregation requires her to subtly

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negotiate her identity by handling African idioms and mobilizing her Québécois socialization: “I learn to manage it, I don’t forget who I am, I have always lived with Québécois values. I can’t get rid of them.” Lucie frames the challenges that she experiences related to African members’ social conduct and expectations as a cultural issue, which leads her to define the tension as resulting from her ingrained “Québécois values.” Being highly circumstantial, in Lucie’s case these Québécois values refer to a more horizontal social structure between generations as well as loose conventions regarding social conducts and norms. The cep leaders asked Lucie to organize a Sunday school for young children, and she interpreted this task as a divine mission to help this young and ethnic church grow. As proof of her devotion to the Christian faith, she worked hard on and made it a priority to complete the project before switching to another church. Lucie’s case is symptomatic of a more general feeling among younger members of the church. For this population, the cultural rules that pre­ vail appear very demanding. Many of them left their home country at a very young age, a transnational experience that gave them little socialization into and knowledge of the cultural idioms of their par­ ents.17 This discrepancy seriously jeopardizes the kinship’s authority, all the more as their parents may not even be settled in Montreal. Some African elders decide to go back home after some time in the host country, while others often travel back and forth, especially for work. Consequently, in the cep like in the acpvm, the pastor, his wife, and the elder members of the church are regarded as parental substitutes. Such a transfer of authority is common in the African context where extended family members and neighbours usually exert authority over the youngest. While this African­style authority is also usually present in the context of migration, younger non­African members are also expected to abide by this implicit rule. This can give rise to tensions. A few of the ethnic minority members are in mixed unions and their matrimonial practices shed light on the grammar of conflict that interethnic relationships may entail. Let us return to Lucie. She is engaged to Tobia, a Christian man from Rwanda who attends another church. Although most churches do not recognize custom­ ary African wedding rituals as legitimate, the way Lucie experienced

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the preliminaries that took place before the marriage emphasizes the cultural processes at work: It’s a bit like a man purchasing the woman with a dowry, but I don’t want to feel like I was bought. His family looks down on me, as though I wasn’t good enough for their son. You have to make good food, spoil the mother­in­law, and spend lots of money on her. But I am not African; I don’t have to do those things. You take me as I am. Lucie explains that her fiancé supports her view while still respecting his elders. Indeed, my observations confirm that Tobia does adhere to the Christian practices surrounding marriage, which is not surpris­ ing given the alternative they offer to customary practices that often require the groom to provide a large dowry, so high that it may even be an obstacle to the actual marriage taking place.18 Nevertheless, Lucie’s unease with marriage practices reveals a more subtle tension between Christian ethos and African cosmology and a clear ambi­ guity regarding the impact of African Pentecostal churches on local gender identities and power relationships. In spite of their discourse that advocates female empowerment,19 the churches’ internal rules and modes of governance are most likely to reproduce traditional social, family, and gender structures.20 In terms of gender relationships in Congolese Pentecostal orga­ nizations, empirical literature describes a local worldview that is at odds with the ethnocentric contention that also circulates among most Franco­Québécois upon which believing women are dominated by reli­ gion or patriarchal models.21 The Christian individualist ethic that is highly attractive to Congolese women is locally reinterpreted through a complementary scheme that takes place within the household. This understanding takes roots in a specific African cosmology where each member of the social unit is devoted to certain responsibilities and a sense of autonomy that unfolds within a framework of mutuality and commonality. Lucie’s experience with her future family­in­law exem­ plifies the tensions and contradictions that emerge when the praxis of celebrating diversity based upon ideologies presented as universal

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dogmas (Christianity) or dominant public policies (interculturalism) occurs in communitarian settings where social rules more closely tie individuals to the group, in a more or less explicit way. As these rules govern the running and the liturgy of the Pentecostal churches, they draw new social frontiers within the membership that do not rely on ethnicity but on age and the social experience of migration. In a con­ text where transnationality governs the migration of both older and younger members, this new frontier entails the circulation of elders between home and host country, while their children develop the abil­ ity to function within the neoliberal environment of Quebec. The next sections examine how Pentecostal churches shape a neoliberal believer, a process I then relate to young Christians’ own perspectives and prac­ tices regarding social integration and cohesion.

youth integration: shaping the neoliberal christian believer Most immigrant Pentecostal churches face challenges cohering over long periods of time and therefore make great efforts to attract young believers. I define the latter as young adults who have come to a turning point in their biographical pathways, when they are prepar­ ing to enter the job market as well as the public and social spheres. Pentecostal churches’ strategy for recruiting young adults draws on the use of technology as well as on musical and dance activities that are portrayed as substitutes for “mundane” secular activities that typically divert youth from the Christian path. If we return to Lucie’s case, after the wedding she plans on joining her husband’s Christian church because it has a younger profile: “My husband’s church is full of young people in their thirties, singles, it’s another atmosphere. The pastor is twenty­eight, he is single, and Rwandan. He is young just like us, we go to La Ronde together [an amusement park].” Young Pentecostals’ rhetoric regarding their role in the church and beyond allows us to revisit the notion of integration so as to better incorporate this population’s ideas and experiences into discussions about their place within the host society. On the one hand, young Pentecostals strive for social and economic mobility in Québécois’

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neoliberal framework both in and outside of the church. On the other hand, they frame themselves as an integral part of an evangelization mission towards the host society.

Encompassing the Host Society in a Christian Paradigm Most of the younger members of the cep and the acpvm are very active beyond the walls of their respective churches. They surf daily on virtual transnational Christian networks, such as topchretien.com, where they develop a sense of global Christian identity that transcends local belonging. However, they also consider their status in the host society to be closely related to the evangelizing role they see themselves as fulfilling. In a context where they form a minority, they construct their role based on a mission: spreading the Gospel in order to save Québécois from decades of Catholicism and the subsequent turmoil of atheism. For example, Lucie’s fiancé Tobia gives himself a target of “saving” (evangelizing) at least one person a week among his personal network of friends and acquaintances. He also considers any public space of interaction a site for evangelization: the workplace, his neigh­ bourhood, etc. What is more, he plans to open his own church with Lucie after their wedding. At the acpvm, some of the younger mem­ bers spend nights praying while others (most often the young women) stand vigil over patients in the city’s hospitals. This view of the host country as a land in need of salvation and evangelization constitutes young Pentecostals’ main entry point into the host society. It defines social interactions between Pentecostals and the majority group of Québécois. Ironically, this ambitious perspec­ tive on local settlement seems to reverse the classical assimilationist definition of integration that comprises the absorption of minorities and that has lately pervaded the local political scene in the aftermath of public debates around the issue of accommodements raisonnables. Renouncing two decades of subtle construction of a pluralist ethos, in 2013 the Parti Québécois government proposed a charter of val­ ues (Charte des valeurs) that would require civil servants, including teachers, not to wear any form of religious dress or symbol in order to guarantee the state’s neutrality through its employees. Although

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the legislative project was never fulfilled, the ensuing debates tore the province apart and clearly polarized Québécois views on the politics of inclusion of minorities. While younger Pentecostals’ project of spreading the Gospel is disconnected from these local concerns and debates, it is part of a broader movement of reverse missions whereby the previously Christianized populations from the South now aim to evangelize the secularized countries of the North.22 In most host countries this agenda has proven a failure, to the extent that the membership of Pentecostal churches remains mostly composed of those from the founding group, as Sandra Fancello has also documented in France.23 Evangelization is then conveyed through other and more complex targets. In Quebec, this project is implemented and leveraged by revisiting the status of women through a subtle instrumentalization of the dominant rhetoric that gauges women’s condition according to their ethnic and religious identity. On the one hand, Pentecostals assert that patriarchal structures subjugate women and on the other hand, they aim at reversing the association between women’s disem­ powerment and their level of religiosity, which has circulated in the province since the Quiet Revolution. As I have shown elsewhere,24 and as Lucie’s testimony illustrates, this strategy draws on the reiter­ ation of ethnic stereotypes that present traditional Congolese men as vile and backward as opposed to Christian women who are virtuous. Let us take the case of Stéphanie. Although she was born in the drc from a mixed couple from Congo­Brazzaville and the drc, she has lived in France and in Russia where her father studied before returning to her home country for a few years. When war broke out in the drc in 1998, she joined her father who was studying in Quebec and decided to settle in the province with a few relatives. She has remained a mem­ ber of the acpvm as a sign of gratitude towards the pastor, his wife, and the elder members who took care of her while her mother stayed in the drc and her father went home. Stéphanie is also very active on the web where she has created a group for young women called Les copines d’abord that aims to help raise their self­esteem, notably by teaching them assault prevention measures and to be proud of being women. Activities include meetings and group readings of books such

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as Joshua Harris’s I Kissed Dating Goodbye (J’ai tourné le dos au flirt). The association essentially targets African women and depicts inherited local customs as unfavourable for women (polygamy, repu­ diation of infertile women, arranged marriage, etc.). At the same time, Stéphanie is highly critical of what she calls “the African male,” who she portrays as backwards and misogynistic and swears she would never marry one. An African man tends to be a little bit of a dictator, he does not even realize. I am under the impression it is just natural for them. And they also tend to be willing to take control. Yes men have to run [things], women are supposed to submit because he is the head of the household. I agree. But with my character, I impose myself too much and it creates too many tensions. So I know right away that unless God blesses me, I am not getting married to a Congolese man. While her association’s website does not explicitly claim Christian influences, Stéphanie aims to spread the Gospel therein by promoting values she sees as Christian. Nevertheless, these values are heavily influenced by Quebec’s specific relationship with the status of women that emerged in the aftermath of the emancipation movement of the 1970s, which itself followed the collapse of Catholic hegemony in the 1960s. In Quebec, the strong focus on gender equity and the valoriza­ tion of women are part of historical patterns that, as Sharify­Funk and Guzik mention in this volume, connect ideas of progress and social liberation, the secularization of social institutions (education in particular), the decline of religious practices and conservative ideologies regarding family models. More recently, this ideological posture has found expression in the rejection of the Muslim hijab. For the religious groups I have observed, like for many Québécois baby boomers who experienced the Quiet Revolution, the issue of women’s status has become the principal point of tension between minorities and the majority. For the younger Pentecostals I met, adhering to the majority’s values is a way for them to be included

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in the host society, although they seek to recast the status of women in a different way. In Quebec, the liberation of women transformed family and social models in such a way that the province now boasts the highest levels of single motherhood, cohabitation, and children born out of wedlock.25 Although Pentecostal youths adhere to the Québécois agenda in terms of valorizing women, they situate it within an alternative understanding of gender and feminism that draws on Christian moral normativity (monogamy, nuclear family, and chastity). As historian Joan Wallach Scott suggests, the category of gender intersects with diverse categories like ethnicity, morality and, as we shall see, social class.26 Practices of integration in Quebec then follow a moral and femi­ nist framework that connects with younger Pentecostals’ evangeliza­ tion project. This association between integration, morality, gender, and Christianity is well illustrated in Stéphanie’s actions or in Lucie’s critique of so­called African habits: “African people’s culture makes it so that they are not comfortable wearing bathing suits in public, while in my husband’s church, they go to the beach. We can be decent even while wearing a bathing suit.”

Striving for Social and Economic Mobility, Incorporating Neoliberal Ethics Pentecostals usually define themselves as Christians and strongly distance themselves from Catholicism, notably the Catholic Church, which they see as heretical. In the apcvm and cep, the young Congolese Pentecostals also situate their Christian identity before their ethnic origin, an ethnicity that they consider more of a heritage than a mode of identification. Despite it being a relatively secularized society, Quebec is nevertheless imbued with Christian values as a result of centuries of Catholicism (not to mention the long historical presence of anglo­Protestant minorities). Additionally, as part of the North, the province also relies on a neoliberal structure that draws on specific values such as entrepreneurship, competition, efficiency, networking, and self­reliance.27 The Prosperity Gospel28 preached in Québécois Congolese churches conveys a rigorous ethic of hard

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work and also promotes skills and competencies that facilitate suc­ cess and material abundance; business techniques for management and governance, as well as media resources are used for facilitating religious practices and advertisement.29 In this particular tradition often framed as neo­Pentecostal, wealth and wellbeing are inter­ preted as blessings from God in the immanent world. In this con­ text, young Pentecostals fit the profile of a “model minority” whose transnational experience, and their faith’s global vocation, generates the skills for successful mobility, networking, and communication. For example, the churches I have visited post all information and transcripts of sermons on their websites, sometimes in real time. The pastors also offer spiritual counselling online. Members may then affiliate with a particular congregation while still following activities and sometimes services in another church. Most if not all churches also have transnational connexions that often give rise to mutual visits of transnational charismatic figures, such as prophets or apostles.30 These skills are especially accessible to Generation Y, and they all model young Pentecostals as neolib­ eral believing subjects. Following Saba Mahmood’s critique of the dominant model of a liberal subject,31 I argue that the Pentecostal neoliberal subject is not unencumbered. Rather, his skills for navi­ gating in secularized Northern countries are delineated by Christian parameters that prioritize social and economic mobility by placing it within a moral framework. In the cep and acpvm, younger members assign significant importance to their mobility within the church, as well as within the host society. Unlike most elder members, they usually enjoy developing social, technological, and linguistic skills to better integrate themselves and thrive in their host society. The majority of them are fluent in French, which they speak even better than their parents’ native tongue, and emphasize learning English as well. This leads many of them westwards towards English­speaking Canada, either as part of an internship for learning English (like with Stéphanie) or as a new destination for settlement. This circulation that many pastors see as an outflow for their church membership also explains the churches’ struggle for longevity and for their strat­ egies for attracting youth.

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Younger Pentecostals are usually well educated and pursue white­collar jobs. For instance, Stéphanie works for an insurance company in downtown Montreal where she shares a flat with her sister. As a woman, her financial independence is quite unusual con­ sidering her African background and sociability space. Also, younger Pentecostals are actively and constantly involved on social network­ ing sites such as Facebook and Christian websites that usually ben­ efit their church and disseminate a Christian message. Technological skills play a major role in the missionary agenda of younger Pentecostals, especially regarding the power struggle that takes place in virtual spaces between Islam and Christianity. During my field­ work, the crash of one of the churches websites was interpreted as an attack from “a Muslim brother,” an ironic way of referring to the battle between these two Abrahamic religions on the African conti­ nent. At the same time, these technological activities gives younger Pentecostals the skills required to access and operate within the neo­ liberal market, which is yet another space of struggle. As evidenced by their high degree of participation in church­or­ ganized activities for entering and thriving on the job market, the young African Pentecostals are very committed to their professional goals. They attend cv­writing conferences that are organized by their churches, they value efficiency in everyday and professional life, and they organize conferences with guest­speakers in order to ask them for advice on concrete issues. During a conference entitled The Secret of Success, the younger members asked the pastor to define whether overtime at work is a sin and how to prepare for exams, to which the pastor replied: “Studying requires putting time into the work, you must get rid of useless things on your calendar. If you can’t manage your time well, you won’t be efficient. It takes discipline. You have to maximize your capacities. You have to eliminate tv series.” The pas­ tor mobilizes neoliberal semantics based on efficiency, maximization of capacities, and management of time in order to build the believer into the most accomplished subject possible: “You are not twenty years old forever, the time for studying is now, and the time for claim­ ing the country is now. Don’t minimize what you have inside of you.” The discourse focuses on the agency of the individual who is seen as

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figure 1.1 Poster displayed in Montreal’s Église de la Promesse, May 2013.

responsible for his own life and who must do well in choosing his priorities, these priorities being related to work and discipline as a way to reach success and therefore deserving of God’s blessings. As previously stated, this goal of reaching economic mobility and developing the necessary skills to achieve it is consistent with the theology of prosperity that currently dominates Pentecostal churches and their immigrant populations and “offers a doctrine of morally controlled materialism, in which personal wealth and success are interpreted as the evidence of God’s blessing of those that lead a true life in Christ.”32 For young Pentecostals, this quest for wealth is as much legitimated as it is delineated by a spiritual and codified moral frame. In this regard, reaching leadership within the congre­ gation is seen as a first step in trying to achieve a higher standing in the public sphere. Consequently, younger members get involved in various ministries and activities and try to gain more responsibility.

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They then hope to transpose their abilities and ambitions into the public sphere so as to get white­collar, well­paying jobs. Economic success in the host society is interpreted as a blessing from God and a reward for the believer’s efforts and discipline. For example, while she was a student Stéphanie headed the youth ministry for a number of years before she got a job downtown and quit her duties in the church. She is now depicted as someone who was very active in the church to make it prosper and grow. Beyond the desire to better one’s financial situation, economic success also represents a strategy for transcending the stigma imposed on African believers due to their ethnic minority status. In Belgium, anthropologist Sarah Demart also observes the “fight for integration” that Congolese Pentecostal churches undertake. She describes how the pastors’ sermon tech­ niques symbolically stage those fights during Sunday rituals. Thus being Christian allows immigrants to negotiate their identity outside of the dominant Belgian frameworks that discriminate and stratify social groups according to their racial and immigrant status.33 At the acpvm and cep, where social ties are governed by intergen­ erational relationships, the neoliberal idiom that the young adults acquire provides a grammar of resistance to traditional and custom­ ary models promoted by the elders. Drawing on Burity’s reading of neoliberalism discourse in Pentecostalism, I argue that framing the young Pentecostal believer as a neoliberal subject counters the influ­ ence of ethnic authority, by redistributing power within the church to a particular class of young people who have the abilities to thrive in the host society thanks to their deep transnational experience and their ignorance regarding their country of origin’s way of behaving (habitus). As an example, just a few months after our first interview when Stéphanie swore she would never marry a Congolese man, she got engaged to a man from Congo­Brazzavile, all the while specifying that he is very different from a “typical African male” because “he has travelled a lot and has lived in Europe for [a] long [time].” Nevertheless, despite their claim to be part of the neoliberal order, Pentecostal Congolese young adults remain a minority group in Quebec society. Burity contends that Pentecostals’ experience illustrates the “comprehensive, decentred, multilayered and contested nature of the

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global neoliberal hegemony.”34 Indeed, younger Pentecostals from the acpvm and cep situate their struggle for economic and social mobil­ ity within a project of evangelization. The reverse missions movement would then add its own dogmatic layer to the neoliberal system. In fact, when younger Pentecostals teach themselves discipline and take leadership roles, they not only hope to empower themselves but also to make their church grow, to embody the model of the perfect Christian, and to spread the Gospel. During the conference on “the secret of suc­ cess,” the pastor generated enthusiasm when he argued that: “Only lazy people give up. We are a generation who will bring about change. You are capable of more. We [Christians] will occupy important posts, we will move up. The church needs people who will do great things.” Borrowing the dominant idiom from the host society facilitates young Congolese Pentecostals’ integration within their Québécois environ­ ment. However, this discourse is also reappropriated and framed within a moral project of Christianizing the host society that exem­ plifies some of the possibilities of ideological differentiation within the neoliberal order.

conclusion In Quebec, like in many other secularized societies, the presence of immigrants with specific religious beliefs and practices has become a topic of collective debate. While the definition and conditions of integration are at stake, I have tried to propose another perspective on the issue by examining how two Pentecostal churches with mostly African populations frame and manage the inclusion of their own ethnic minorities. Although they emphasize the unity of religious belonging and the celebration of ethnic diversity, the majority ethnic group rules the congregation in terms of governance, social conduct, and cultural codes. The testimonies and experiences of some minori­ ties, either white Québécois or other, show that they are expected to adapt accordingly and to adjust their own ritual and social behaviour to that of the congregation. Members of ethnic minority groups usu­ ally do adapt to these implicit rules, for a variety of reasons. This mode of incorporation of ethnic minorities within the congregation

Pentecostal Immigrants in a Neoliberal Age

53

echoes Pentecostals’ vision of integration within the host society, which they frame within a project of encompassment. However, observing how such social dynamics are renegotiated within the church also paints a more complex picture where ethnic tensions take place along intergenerational lines. While elders bring customary practices to the church, younger members have a more transnational experience that requires specific skills to navigate the host society, including acquiring the French language and a sensitiv­ ity towards issues of gender equality. While such abilities are pro­ moted and facilitated by a theology of prosperity that features these churches’ credo, they also position younger Pentecostals favourably for taking leadership roles and redistributing power within their con­ gregations, and for developing a neoliberal profile that fits the host society’s paradigm. Along with the goal of economic and social success, neo­Pentecos­ tal theology propels Christian believers’ aim to evangelize Quebec society, although they rarely meet with much success.35 As a matter of fact, while individual and community religious claims are given legit­ imacy in Quebec, the majority of the population still views religion with suspicion and, notably, all sorts of proselytism, as a direct threat to fundamental rights and freedoms and to the assertion of a com­ mon collective identity. This secular rhetoric that delegitimizes public expressions of faith is at odds with the recognition of Christianity as a material, symbolic, social, and political heritage. For younger Pentecostals, giving priority to their Christian identity rather than to their African origins therefore represents a strategy of inclusion based on convergence and commonality with mainstream society, although the aim of “reevangelizing” the province remains a central concern. In this context, Pentecostals’ religiosity is usually tolerated. Nevertheless, in a context of common suspicion surrounding reli­ gion, and institutionalized religion in particular, younger Pentecostals tend to shift their spaces of sociability and religious activism beyond their churches to the realm of Christian transnational networks. This dynamic of inclusion and exclusion involves different levels of spa­ tiality and may inform debates regarding the determinants of social cohesion in a province now marked by diversity.

2 Constructing Today’s Church: Gendered Religious Practice in a Rural Parish Frédéric Parent and Hélène Charron If social change “from above” now seems difficult, this is no reason to allow ourselves to be taken in by the false image of sluggishness that Catholicism as an institution may give of itself; on the contrary, we must capture the rearrangements that are in the process of emerging “from below.” Céline Béraud, Prêtres, diacres, laics (2007), 11.

For some decades, scholars have questioned the idea of a break asso­ ciated with the 1960s and Quebec’s Quiet Revolution. The “exit” from religion thesis is getting increasing support from sociologists and historians who show how this process was deeply influenced by specialized Catholic Action movements1 and by Personalist the­ ologies.2 Few of them however have an ethnographic perspective on religious practice, and their analyses deal first and foremost with the discourses and ideologies of educated elites more than those of mar­ ginalized populations that remained “peripheral” to power.3 Understanding the Quiet Revolution as a break with the past has also contributed to making invisible those religious spaces which, in spite of being marginalized, have reconfigured themselves and remained very significant for some populations, such as women. Studies, including Emma Anderson’s chapter (this volume), are now shedding light on the continuity of religious practices among fran­ cophone Québécois, such as those people who still make pilgrimage

Gendered Religious Practice in a Rural Parish

55

to devotional sites like Saint­Joseph’s Oratory and Saint­Anne­de­ Beaupré. Yet the general impression remains that everyday social spaces once occupied by Catholicism have been left empty with the disappearance of old forms of parish life. Our chapter shows that to explore parish life does not mean studying a folklorized past; instead, it gives us access to contemporary social spaces that are particularly overlooked in the sociology of Quebec. The 1960s and the Quiet Revolution occurred at the same time as the Second Vatican Council, a turning point in the history of the Catholic Church, which then called on laypeople to get more involved in ecclesial structures. The shortage and aging of priests, as well as declining religious practice in much of the population, also resulted in higher levels of active participation among still­practising laypeo­ ple. These shifts gradually brought about new divisions of religious labour, for example between men and women, and a “redistribution of power whose extent [still] remains overlooked.”4 Catholicism has long kept women at the periphery of liturgical activities and continues to deny them positions of power within the Church.5 However, the sexual division of religious labour within North American Catholic communities has changed since Vatican II. Women have taken over pastoral and liturgical activities from which they had been previously been excluded. The gradual feminization of religious space has contributed to hiding religion from the general public’s view, but it has also enabled and ensured the “regionaliza­ tion” of Quebec Catholicism, referring to the amalgamation of par­ ishes into larger “pastoral units” (unités pastorales). In other words, the fact that the religious field is occupied by a growing majority of women increases its invisibility but also ensures that it survives the regionalization process supported by many women involved in it and opposed by some men.6 However, as Anita Caron has shown,7 gendered social roles within religious space are also not independent from those prevailing in other social spaces and the weaker intel­ lectual legitimacy of women in the general areas of knowledge and theory is also a feature of the religious space open to laypeople.8 Intellectual legitimacy in liturgical activities (especially during the

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homily) still eludes women, due as much to a weak sense of legit­ imacy as to the greater trust put in the lay men, very much in the minority, who assume the authority to interpret the Scriptures. In this article, we tackle certain modalities generated by the reor­ ganization of religious practice within the parish as an institution. More specifically, based on ethnographic work (un travail de terrain) conducted from 2007 to 2008 in a village on the south shore of the Saint Lawrence River between Quebec City and Montreal, we explore the emergence of a new practice: the Sunday assem­ bly held while awaiting the celebration of the Eucharist (Assemblée dominicale en attente de célébration eucharistique, or adace). The data presented in this article was collected through direct observa­ tions and interviews gathered during our residence in the village, as well as studies of archived land registers and censuses. In analyz­ ing the Eucharistic ritual, we aim to show how traditional forms of religious organization reliant on localized and masculine spaces still persist, and may impinge upon newer possibilities for “doing” religion in ways that align with profound social transformations in today’s world.

the regionalization of religious structures The contemporary transformation of Catholicism is defined by what French sociologist Céline Béraud called a “quiet revolution” or a “silent revolution,” both because the secular nature of Western soci­ eties hides current Catholic practices and because the latter are very largely feminine. These feminine practices are less and less part of a parish framework, strictly speaking, and are moving towards a new regional space made necessary by the decrease in the numbers of available masculine clergy and the number of practising faithful in each parish.9 The parish under study in our ethnographic inquiry belongs to a grouping of four parishes called a “pastoral unit,” entrusted with orga­ nizing pastoral activities.10 However, the four parishes are not admin­ istratively merged, although there have been discussions about admin­ istrative consolidation for more than ten years. Strong opposition

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from vestries, who want to maintain control of their own budget, are preventing Quebec’s Catholic Church from going ahead. Each parish manages its revenues and expenses through its fabrique, a lay council that remains the main channel for men’s involvement in local religious space. Their commitment to the fabrique does not imply that they no longer attend mass, although admittedly fewer do so, but it does mean that they are less involved in other parish gatherings.11 The regionalization of religious activities mostly takes place through pastoral services and the liturgy. With the shrinking of the ecclesial body and the increase in the number of parishes under one jurisdiction, the priest increasingly has to work in “collabora­ tion” with laypeople, who have become the ones mostly responsible for the parish’s pastoral activities. It is in order to regulate these helpers that the Church has created the Local Facilitation Team (Équipe d’animation locale), to which the priest does not belong. In the parish under study, pastoral activities and the promotion of religious life was the responsibility of a woman (pastoral delegate) elected during a meeting of parishioners. Her tasks are numerous. She puts together the Local Facilitation Team, which she then trains and supervises. Each week, she also ensures the presence of the staff necessary for each weekly mass (including ministers of communion, servants of the mass, choir children, etc.). Four times a year, she leads an adace run by her facilitation team. In the village under study, she is the only one to have fulfilled nearly every major role during the adace, including assembly and choir leader, crowd facil­ itator, and the deliverer of the gospel commentary. This woman, entrusted with the orientation, evaluation, and follow­up of pas­ toral activities, holds a university diploma and, more precisely, a certificate in theology.12 She says, Initially, [collaborating with] four parishes, that didn’t appeal to me, because we were fine here and it involved a lot of going back and forth. As it turns out, we learn a lot from other parishes because each one has small differences and we give each other suggestions on how to go about things [...] We share everything we do and it makes us evolve, or makes us go forward a lot

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to work all four of us together. For me, this isn’t very difficult, because I have a lot of experience with meetings. With the multiplication of parishes under his jurisdiction, the priest thus shares pastoral duties with laypeople. He remains the chaplain of the Knights of Columbus, whom he meets once a month, but his participation in associative life is still mostly characterized by the direction of committees (the Committee for Pastoral Orientation and the Liturgical Committee) supporting him in the performance of his main tasks, such as the celebration of the mass and the admin­ istration of sacraments (baptisms and weddings). The priest is not excluded from the local association milieu, but his time is no longer spent exclusively in one village. Every Sunday, he celebrates mass in two of the four parishes and is assisted by retired priests for the par­ ishes where he does not lead the celebration himself. During mass, some tasks are still exclusively reserved for the priest by canon law: the celebration of the Eucharist and sacramental penitence. The priest of the parish under study is still present for funeral services and burials. Every Friday, he also visits the sick at the hospice. In short, the priest now moves in an “interparochial” space that is not widely occupied by the faithful, who still remain largely within parish space for their religious activities. According to the priest, the creation of a “community spirit” between the four parishes is one of the main difficulties he is encountering in his practice.13 It’s about managing to gather everyone to have a common objective, a community spirit. Getting people to look in the same direction. For sure, it remains a challenge that always remains, because often, in a parish, it’s a little like in a family, there are parents and there are children. We don’t necessarily all have the same goals that we’re pursuing; we don’t necessarily all have a family spirit either. Sometimes, one wants to go one way and the other some other way. At the level of pastoral and of everything to do with pastoral presence, the sacraments and all that, it hasn’t been too difficult, but at the level of adminis­ tration, to be sure ... (Why is it more difficult?) Because vestry

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board members figure that the money parishioners give is for their own parish, they won’t pay for the administration of the parish next door. They’ll manage on their own. It is, deep down, to bring people – we’re all for the same cause, religion, the Church with a capital C. It is to develop that particular state of mind. The regionalization process stands in contrast to another model for the organization of social relations in the parish’s religious space, which could be termed that of local (parochial) rootedness, struc­ tured through networks of relatives and alliances.14 It relies on what might be called the founding population, referring to extended fam­ ilies that have been present in the village since its settlement in the middle of the nineteenth century. The expression “founding family” (famille-souche) in no way refers to a biological and genetic real­ ity but to longstanding associations between families that often had mutual relations even before colonizing the village. It is a population of “pioneers,” a term used often in this context in Quebec, insofar as they are descendants of the first colonizing families. Members of founding families still self­consciously perceive and recognize them­ selves as part of this pioneer lineage.15 This model is becoming increasingly fragile, even if it still remains the dominant model for the population as a whole, both men and women. In parallel, an interparochial (regional) model has been spurred in part because of the regionalization of religious activities. It is structured mainly around fraternal groups, such as the Knights of Columbus, and religious education activities.16 This process of religious regionalization, that can also be observed in the economic and political spaces, is perceived as a threat by the male founding population that distrusts the official structures of Quebec Catholicism, just as it is wary of economic and political interven­ tions coming from outside. Some even go so far as to question the need for these parish amalgamations, in spite of the decrease in priests and practitioners. One former fabrique chairman in the vil­ lage offered a typical response:

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Frédéric Parent and Hélène Charron

It is not a necessity everywhere [the consolidation of parishes]! It is not a necessity everywhere! (Was it a necessity here?) Those guys say it’s a necessity, but ... I’m friends with priests from Haiti, and I’ve been at the archbishopric of Haiti, and I asked them if we needed a priest for a few years, if he has plenty in Haiti. He says to me: “We’ve got plenty of priests in Haiti ... of course it’s something to look into, but it’s possible.” I for one when I started talking about this, I figured if I’m able to have a foreign priest, we’re keeping our parish, we’re gonna have a priest and we’re gonna take care of our priest. We’re gonna pay him, we’re gonna pay him the same then. (Emphasis added.) To the dismay of this male founding population, it is the end of the customary model of a parish, of a church and a priest. In addition to the fact that many parishes no longer receive the services of a priest who is exclusively devoted to them, many parish vestries will defi­ nitely be merged in the coming years.

the sexual division of religious labour As evident in parish religious practices, there has been a strong femini­ zation of religious space and in particular of pastoral space, as well as the sexual division of religious activities. The priest collaborates more with women since, in the context of regionalization, he is now mostly involved in pastoral activities rather than in those of the vestry or the annual collection (the Annual Voluntary Contribution, Contribution volontaire annuelle – cva).17 For if women are indeed a majority in the religious space, they are also concentrated or specialized in pastoral and liturgical activities (education in the faith, liturgical committees, local facilitation team), while most of the time men end up in adminis­ trative tasks (the annual collection, for instance) and the maintenance of vestry goods (cemetery, church, real estate, etc.).18 More specifically, the sexual division of labour may be observed in the makeup of the various associations present in the parish under study. The Vestry Committee and the cva Committee are the only

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two groupings in which we find again a numerical participation of men that is practically equivalent to that of women. Since the priest is no longer vestry chairman, it is the men from old families that are well established in the parish who replace him. These founding families have also spearheaded writing a book for the anniversary of the parish’s founding and have gathered the largest collection of funds for church roof renovations. The activities of these two groups mainly concern the financial and material management of church buildings and the payment of the priest’s salary. They mostly take place in the parish, since the lay wardens still refuse to merge with the other parishes. These families are furthermore endowed with a financing structure that is “parallel” to that of the Church, for instance through the opening of a bank account, which gives them total control over the gifts received. The Catholic organization of the Knights of Columbus, made up solely of men, continues to be very active locally and regularly organizes fundraising activities. All the other associations of a religious character are made up almost exclusively of women, be it the movement for the awakening and education of faith for children and young people (the Brebis de Jésus, or Ewes of Jesus), the Catholic Action movement to train “effi­ cient and dynamic women” (Mouvement des Femmes chrétiennes), or the reflection committee for the orientation of parish life (Comités pour l’orientation de la vie pastorale – cop) as well as the commit­ tees for pastoral life (i.e. the Local Facilitation Team).19 Furthermore, the female pastoral delegate takes charge of all the parish’s pastoral activities, in addition to finding and contacting the people needed for the weekly Sunday Mass (servers, readers, etc.). Participation of men and women is thus differentiated according to the type of practice but also according to the space of their activi­ ties. On the one hand, women deal with moral and spiritual matters, while men, if they are members of well­established families, deal with money and infrastructure. On the other hand, women are beginning to move within a new interparochial space with the priest – one born of the regionalization of religious activities – while men remain more tied to local or parochial space.

Table A: Consolidated parish groups in 2006 Groups

Composition

Activities

Setting

Vestry Board

3 men 3 women Under the direction of an elected chairperson.

Administration and maintenance of church properties (buildings, cemetery, snow removal, etc.)

Parish

Voluntary Annual Contribution Committee

30 men 34 women Under the direction of an appointed chairperson.

In charge of annually collecting the gifts of parishioners (formerly the tithe) in late January and early February. The suggested gift is about $300 per household.

Parish

Knights of Columbus

Includes men only (unknown number)

Organizing fundraisers to finance local activities and the Church.

Parish

Pastoral Orientation Council

2 men (the priest and a vestry representative) 1 woman (pastoral delegate). Under the direction of the priest

Monthly meetings to reflect on, orient and evaluate pastoral life and do the follow-up on the evangelization project.

Interparochial

Liturgical Committee

1 man (priest) 5 women Under the direction of the priest.

Organizing and preparing the liturgical activities needed during Sunday assemblies.

Interparochial

Committee Sunday Assembly While Awaiting the Celebration of the Eucharist

1 man 5 women Under the direction of the delegate.

Preparation of celebrations during the priest’s absence.

Parish

Staffing for a mass

21 men 110 women Under the direction of the delegate.

Choir (led by the delegate) Servants Choir children (delegate’s sister-in-law) Ministers (led by the delegate)

Parish

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Groups

Composition

Activities

Setting

Mouvement des femmes chrétiennes

65 members, of which about 20 are active Chaired by a laywoman

Catholic Action movement whose members meet on a monthly basis to discuss various topics (family, evolution of women, etc.) Annual pilgrimage to Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré

Parish

Brebis de Jésus

0 men 9 women

Movement for the awakening and education of the faith aimed at children of ages 4 and older. Meetings 1 time every 3 weeks in the church basement for a total of 10 meetings over the months of October to April

Interparochial

Source: Pastoral delegate and parish monograph.

Even though they are taking over more and more of the pastoral dimension of Catholicism by replacing the priest four times a year for the celebration of the Sunday assembly held while awaiting the celebration of the Eucharist (adace),20 feminine associations con­ tinue to fulfill, first and foremost, their traditional functions within the Church, namely being responsible for moral sociability, partic­ ularly with children and people who are alone and sick.21 However, beyond the reproduction of an older gendered order confining women to care and education, current mutations in the division of religious labour are giving women the opportunity to redefine their sphere of influence as more sacred than what is reserved for men, namely having to do with the liturgy (baptisms, funerals, adaces, etc.).22 Through this process, are women moving from being respon­ sible for religious pedagogy to becoming authorized holders of cru­ cial knowledge related to the liturgy and homily, despite all that remains (officially) forbidden to them?

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Anita Caron has shown that, between 1945 and 1980, women went from charity event organizers to being responsible for the social and cultural services offered by religious associations.23 From 1975 onward, they started to take on more and more responsibilities in pas­ toral and liturgical activities. However, Caron observes that positions of power were still eluding them in the late 1980s. Has the region­ alization process and women’s role within the adace brought about deeper transformations in the distribution of gendered power in the religious space? Have issues of intellectual legitimacy (of trust, a sense of legitimacy, recognition of symbolic authority by the population, etc.) observed by Caron subsided or do they remain?

a “new” parish practice The institutional reorganization of the Church allows laypeople to perform activities formerly reserved for churchmen. The priest, even if he receives help, cannot say mass every Sunday in all parishes. In the 1990s, Canadian bishops devised various tools to allow laypeo­ ple to prepare and celebrate Sunday assemblies while awaiting the celebration of the Eucharist.24 Though they were poorly attended in the 1990s, adaces become more regular in the years after 2000, par­ ticularly in rural parishes of less than 1,000 inhabitants.25 Four times a year, and probably more frequently in the future, the laypeople of the parish under study are responsible for an adace.26 An adace, in spite of the priest’s absence, looks a lot like an ordi­ nary mass but is shorter. We “sometimes have the impression that there is no information to be given on this type of celebration”27 since the ritual has already been determined in advance by the Church to a considerable extent. Participants use and scrupulously follow the Prions en Église, a small booklet that specifies readings and suggests songs and prayer intentions. In the course of our inquiry, we have, on the other hand, noted that the public is less numerous at the adace than when the priest is present. Bells peal some ten minutes before the beginning of the adace ceremony while most of the faithful enter the church. With the choir singing until the opening of the assembly, some stop at the font and

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cross themselves while others head straight for the pews. Before they sit some genuflect facing the altar. Whispering underlines the assem­ bly’s general silence. There is thus no major difference in the initial attitude of celebrants during an adace and during masses. The adace is not experienced as an activity calling for less restraint and gravitas than ordinary masses. The crowd is not very lively; it is rather elderly and includes many women on their own. Young families are rare, and therefore children can be counted on the fingers of one hand. When the choir stops singing, the assembly leader introduces the celebra­ tion by the sign of the cross and the customary greetings. “May the grace of Jesus our Lord, the love of God the Father, and the communion of the Holy Spirit always be with you.” The assembly answers: “And with your spirit.” The leader continues with reading of the “penitential preparation” in which she first announces that the Lord invites everyone to his meal and that he opens his heart to the people present. She then calls on Jesus, in a few short sentences, to have mercy on us and the faith­ ful answer: “Have mercy on us.” Immediately after the penitence, the choir intones a “Glory to God,” followed without much fervour by a few parishioners who murmur along. Some women are a little more active. This chant closes the opening of the assembly. The second part of the assembly, devoted to the Liturgy of the Word, starts when a laywoman enters the church’s central aisle and goes up to the altar holding the Holy Book aloft. The faithful’s gaze follows the Book as the choir sings a chant. The laywoman then lays it down on the altar and prepares for the assembly’s first reading. The president of the ceremony first does the proclamation of the Holy Book, meaning that she solemnly recognizes that it is going to guide the assembly’s whole unfolding. Another laywoman continues the ceremony by again reading a Gospel passage, drawn from Saint Luke, commenting on it afterwards in a manner that corresponds to a priest’s homily. This is the most involved moment for laypeople entrusted with interpreting certain passages of the Bible. This part of the assembly ends with a prayer. After collecting donations for various Church charities, laypeople leave their pews and line up to take the host that has been consecrated beforehand by the priest and

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that is then distributed by the assembly leader. Finally, the Holy Book leaves the church the same way that it came.

the homily and the (partial) female appropriation of new roles It’s kind of that role [of the priest] I’m performing. Yes, it’s kind of that role. Only the priest has been ordained. He per­ forms sacraments. We though don’t have the right to do this as women. It could very well be a woman who’s ordained, for sure in my opinion! […] Look in the Gospel, women were not belit­ tled as much. It’s only over the years that women were belittled. At some point, women weren’t worth much anymore. Why? Because men are physically stronger than women, they have more power over them? I find this a little dumb. We have other values. (pastoral delegate) The major difference between an adace and an ordinary mass is the more sustained and active involvement of the public. A number of times, the assembly leader entreats the people present to start sing­ ing songs whose tune and lyrics she often forgets due to nervousness. She also asks the faithful to hold each other’s hands at the moment of communion. However, the most important and prestigious task still remains the homily. During our investigation, the woman responsible for the comment above about the Gospel emphasized her own attitude of humility in the performance of this important task. The laypeople we have met who have already done the “homily” all insist on the difficulty of the task and continually repeat that they cannot replace the priest.28 Laypeople put a lot of time into the preparation of adace and the personal interpretation of the Gospel they offer the parishioners pres­ ent. Far from being innocuous, the homily is, as it were, a morality lesson in which the person in charge interprets a Gospel passage that has a certain resonance in the daily life of the believers in attendance. As the pastoral delegate says,

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When you talk about commentaries on the Gospel, there too ... it takes me at least ten hours to prepare a text. We have to read and imbibe this and read other things relating to that. You read that for a long time, and you look for ideas that relate to what you are experiencing in daily life and whatever message there is in that [the Gospel]. You cannot say just anything. People really have to understand it. It’s really something! In the context of the priest’s gradual withdrawal, theological knowledge is becoming more important for women involved in pas­ toral activities, for they have to appropriate certain ecclesial respon­ sibilities formerly reserved for the priest. The reading and personal study of the Bible is, however, far from a generalized practice among the whole of the parish population attending adaces. In reality, only a few parishioners are in a position to perform the liturgical functions delegated to laypeople, since the great majority of the population does not wish to train to this end. In the parish under study, the pastoral delegate is the person most involved in reli­ gious training, which allows her to aspire to a form of legitimacy in the exercise of the homily during the adace. This delegate has been working as a volunteer for more than forty years. She was first a member of the Jeunesse rurale catholique (Catholic Rural Youth), within which she says she learnt how to organize religious life on the basis of their motto Voir-Juger-Agir (See­Judge­Act). She then became a member of most religious associations of the parish (the choir, the Enfants de Marie – Children of Mary – the Brebis de Jésus, etc.). In spite of her long experience in many Catholic movements and of theological training, the pastoral delegate repeatedly expresses her uncertainties, her sense of being an amateur, and her fear of mak­ ing mistakes, even if she trusts more in her abilities than most other women of her parish, who claim they are simply too embarrassed to talk about it. The pastoral delegate notes, I’ve often been afraid of not saying the right stuff and even today still, the priest asks a question, I know I take it upon myself to find the right answer – you know, not the right answer, all

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answers are good, but I mean when you lack self­confidence a little, you’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. What the others are going to say about you. It’s mostly that, heh? What the others are going to say about you if you say such a thing, you’re afraid of saying something stupid. Especially about religion, some­ times about others topics, it may be less of a big deal, but about religion you’re not well­informed enough, you don’t have enough knowledge, you’re afraid of not saying the right things, that often happens, it often happens. In short, although she is the best­qualified person in the parish to replace the priest, the pastoral delegate has only a weak sense of legit­ imacy and competence. This feeling is not unrelated to gender hierar­ chy within the Catholic Church. For many parishioners, there remains a status difference between the priest and the pastoral delegate or the person in charge of the assembly. This hierarchy is not only founded on statutory differentiations between the priest and the laypeople but is also a function of gender relations. One of the clues to the gendered nature of this character is a comparison between the higher recognition and moral and intellectual authority granted to the only man – a for­ mer schoolteacher – who carried out the homily during an adace and that afforded to the pastoral delegate, even with her superior training in theology and level of hands­on experience. Likewise, the quotation above from a former vestry chairman who expressed his wish to host a Haitian priest to avoid consolidating parishes may be understood as the reiteration of the symbolic gender hierarchy between priests (men) and laypeople (women) in liturgical activity. A university graduate and member of the new population,29 the former schoolteacher agreed to preside over one of the annual adaces following requests from the pastoral delegate who was looking for a man to perform this task, which until then had only been performed by women. The delegate never called upon men to perform tasks tra­ ditionally reserved to women, like the preparation of the mass. Thus one way of countering some of the delegitimization of the adace resulting from its association with the feminine sphere may be to deliberately choose a male leader with high likeability – what might

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be termed “sympathetic capital” – and moral authority thanks to his former trade as a schoolteacher. Generally speaking, the Liturgical Committee gives the person in charge of the assembly an overall plan for the ceremony so as to preserve a certain decorum. According to the schoolteacher, the work required to lead the assembly is nothing in comparison to preparing a personal interpretation of a Gospel passage, since Catholic faithful are not used to reading and presenting their own ideas in front of a religious assembly. In part, this challenge speaks to how Catholic authorities still resist the development of individual initiative with respect to sacred texts. When we met the former teacher, he had already done two adaces. He said, These adaces are really something! It’s the homily that kills us! The rest, you read in the Prions en Église, universal prayers, you read. [...] I for one find it emotional! The first time, I was very emotional about going there to preach, I couldn’t just preach like that. I had my text and I read it with as much intonation as possible. The first time I left to go there, when I had finished the Gospel reading and then the homily, when it was over with say­ ing “I believe in God,” I was so unsteady on my legs that I didn’t know how I’d be able to get myself home. The former schoolteacher tells how, after the assembly, a woman was waiting for him on the church porch to tell him he should always be assigned this task in the priest’s absence. His answer: “‘My dear lady – I knew she had nine children – would you have agreed to hav­ ing four a year?’ She said no. Well for me, an adace is like having a child, I worked so hard at it that I can’t just do it again.” During our fieldwork, several people insinuated that the schoolteacher was a former priest who had left the religious life, which is not the case. His legitimacy as an interpreter of the Word of God is twofold, even if he is not a regular Sunday churchgoer. First, he himself never doubts his ability to produce a homily; from his standpoint, only the amount of work involved in this responsibility limits the recur­ rence of his involvement. Second, he receives accolades from others

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that conform to gendered expectations of moral authority, which further reinforce his sense of being a legitimate stand­in for the priest during this most esteemed, and highly symbolic, portion of the assembly. We also note this transposition of the priest’s moral and intellectual prestige towards laypeople through the function of deacon, which is another channel for the transfer of responsibilities formerly reserved for the priest.30 In the parish under study, how­ ever, deacons were hardly visible nor were they involved in regular pastoral activities during our inquiry, probably due to the rather exceptional volunteer participation. The parish under study was actually the first one of the pastoral unit to fill all the positions within the Local Facilitation Team. During our inquiry, the former village schoolteacher was the first man we met to belong simultaneously to the adace Committee and the Voluntary Annual Contribution Committee (cva) as the person responsible for this sector. Moreover, he was the only man to par­ ticipate in activities linked to parish pastoral, and he belonged to the new population that is not normally very involved in religious activities, with the exception of the Brebis de Jésus movement aimed at children. The former schoolteacher thus represents, as it were, the masculine figure closest to the priest, in addition to being an educated person from outside the village. Usually regulated by norms derived from an association’s seniority within the parish,31 social relations within religious space continue to be legitimated by the priest who, in the eyes of all, stands above local issues because he does not directly share their common history. The priest does not reside in the village and must graft himself onto already existing networks or join them together. He must not “take sides,” as this would weaken his position. He must be diplomatic and steer a course between discourses of universality and particular­ ity without getting too involved in local politics. It may thus be the case that senior parishioners have a harder time receiving a “sermon” from people holding what is, from their standpoint, the same hierar­ chical position within religious space and who are involved locally in the same power relations as they are. Thus, people of the new pop­ ulation who are not anchored in old family networks, like the priest

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and the teacher, can give morality lessons that will not be interpreted as aimed at particular people. It is possible to see what may be the future of Catholicism in the development of adaces, which depends on the growing involvement of laypeople as they assume functions that used to be beyond their reach, such as the homily. This future may involve certain forms of training, for example though university courses, that will compen­ sate for the absence of deep roots in the parish, as exemplified by a man of the new population, the former village schoolteacher, who is entrusted with an adace every year. However, this future remains in the making since the adaces are still not very well accepted by the whole village population.

the local reception of adaces The Church’s official discourse often seems to boil down to waiting for better days, as well as a call to prayer for an upswing in priestly vocations. Céline Béraud, Prêtres, diacres, laics (2007), 10

The adaces draw fewer faithful than an “ordinary” assembly in the priest’s presence. This variation may be attributed either to a certain indifference or to resistance on the part of the population towards a new interparochial model staffed mainly by women. All the people we met as part of this ethnographic inquiry underline that adaces are in no way a mass. In spite of this proviso, it appears that the people most “attached” to tradition continue to oppose this practice, do not attend those assemblies and prefer to wait for the return of a priest the following week. They feel that the absence of the priest at the church makes their own presence useless. The pastoral delegate notes, Let’s say that people are getting used to it. At the beginning, people didn’t really know. It doesn’t look like much, but it takes a lot more time to prepare an adace than just an ordinary mass, because we’re laywomen and we have to show we’re better,

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because if you do something that’s not right, people won’t like it. You have to prepare all that perfectly. The pastoral delegate associates the decrease in attendance to older people “who put the priest on a pedestal” just because he’s “learned his religion.” Those people don’t accept the idea of a fil­ ial relationship between the priest and the pastoral leaders – that is, women. The president of the Mouvement des Femmes Chrétiennes (Movement of Christian Women) in parochial space explains the sit­ uation in the following way: Before we used to have a priest and a curate here. Now, we’ve lost the vicar, we’ve lost the curate ... there are some who are really affected by this because they’ve had a rough time getting used to this. But if you don’t want to accept change, you age much faster. It’s normal, they can’t do any differently. They have to take the priests they’ve got, and you have to make it work with that. The former churchwarden, quoted above, might be considered an example of this population. Although he feels that religious life is almost dead and he strongly opposes regionalization in all its forms (religious, economic, and political), he also echoes what a former priest once told him about a return to religion. In 2040–50, you’ll see a rise back to the way it used to be. All kinds of small movements are going to be created to interest the young population and they’re the ones who are going to take charge. It’s a cycle. Religion has always been a cycle. It will always remain a cycle; a hundred­year cycle! […] New move­ ments are getting started like the Brebis de Jésus. It’s real tough, but people are slowly joining. You’ve got to give it time. It’s not the way we’ve been taught, but we’ve got to forget the past and forgive those who ... that’s what forgiveness is. While awaiting better days, the Brebis de Jésus represent one recent religious alternative that has been relatively well accepted by the for­

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mer vestry board chairman, who, not without some hesitation, sees in this new movement a portent of the return to Catholicism.32

conclusion This analysis of new forms of organization of religious life in rural Quebec shows that men value the local space of proximity more than women, who are the primary agents of the regionalization of reli­ gious activities following decreases in the number of practitioners and priests. It is worth noting, however, that while the differentia­ tion we have observed between men (the parochial) and women (the regional) also accords with statistical studies by theologian Pierre Goudreault and recent interviews collected by Pierrette Daviau and Louis­Charles Lavoie, further research is necessary to better under­ stand variations in this pattern, notably in parishes that are older and/or urban.33 Nevertheless, in the context of the rural parish described here, this gendered split helps clarify why the men we have met are largely opposed to closing the parish church, while women can cope with it. In any case, says one woman, “religion doesn’t just boil down to church attendance, and for over 2,000 years believers have always found a gathering place.” Women have nothing to lose in regionalization. On the contrary, they have a lot to gain. They do not manage the church and they do not need it in order to take over responsibilities that come ever closer to those traditionally associated with the priest. For men, the positive value ascribed to the local and to the close relationship between the priest and the parishioners can be explained by their position in space. Men from established families that have been intimately tied to the parish’s development are very conscious of the importance of the spatial inscription of their activities, since they materially occupy an area of local space that is much larger than other families. The church’s disappearance is defined a little like the loss of a part of themselves. In other words, the correspondence between meaning and concrete forms of existence is broken when the parish model they have known, and on which their families’ local “power” rested, ceased to be reproduced. For most of them, this

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broader framework, which focuses only on changes in the religious field that most affect them, obscures the emergence of a reflexivity that would allow them to perceive, to become aware of, new forms of religious life that are produced mainly by women. Here again, the feminization of a particular social space results in a broader devalu­ ation of this space whose modalities of organization now elude the men from established families. This also makes it possible to under­ stand why women’s access to certain formerly forbidden functions in no way guarantees the constitution of enough intellectual and moral legitimacy for them to exercise religious authority, since it must also be recognized and accepted by believing communities.

3 Powwow Music: Tradition and Innovation in Indigenous Cosmologies Laurent Jérôme Indigenous people’s capacity to adapt to the current context is part of complex processes attesting to the fact that Canada’s Indigenous tra­ ditions are still alive. Anthropologists Frederic Laugrand and Denys Delâge note how “it would be a mistake to think that Indigenous values and practices are disappearing.”1 They have a powerful mobi­ lizing effect on culture, identity, society, politics, and religion, and nowadays one would be hard pressed to deny the visibility, flexibility and openness of these traditions across the Americas.2 In particular, they have pride of place in the healing process and bring about new forms of resistance, as anthropologist Jean­Guy Goulet has shown.3 Yet in considering this dynamism, we have to take into account a his­ torical context characterized by successive ruptures in ancestral life­ styles, from the passage from nomadism to sedentariness to religious influences such as Catholicism and other branches of Christianity, including Evangelical, Baptist, and Pentecostal churches. As anthro­ pologist Adrian Tanner suggests about the Eeyou (Cree), such influ­ ences play an important role in fashioning contemporary Indigenous religious landscapes.4 First, these landscapes were initially constructed through various forms of exchange with other First Nations of Quebec, Canada, and the rest of the world. In the literature, certain ritual practices are termed pan­Amerindian, because they are shared by a great number of First Nations, be it in Quebec, Canada, or the United States. Powwows, large dance and singing gatherings, are the best known example of these practices.5 The walking out ceremony, the sweat lodge, tobacco

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offerings, the use of the medicine wheel or drum practice are recog­ nized practices of this pan­Amerindianism. Still today, these rituals play several roles in continuity with what was observed by the first eth­ nographers: maintaining social relations with the non­human world, preserving the order of the universe within which humans and non­hu­ mans coexist (the sweat lodge, for example, is a communication rit­ ual), satisfying the entities of this universe to secure their protection (e.g. by way of tobacco offerings), healing and looking after oneself. Secondly, it is possible to maintain that sedentarization processes and pan­Amerindianism have given rise to new forms of transmis­ sion of Indigenous lore: thus, everywhere in Quebec, Canada, and the United States, groups regularly organize spiritual gatherings based on traditional concepts of medicine and healing.6 Within communi­ ties, it is ever more commonplace to meet ritual officiants regularly practising the spiritual retreats (isolation, fasting) absolutely required to carry out certain rituals and to maintain their status as guides. Increasingly, ritual officiants and cultural leaders travel through Canada, the United States, but also more and more towards South America (Peru, Bolivia, the Amazon). The reverse is just as true, since many South American “shamans” or “healers” are invited, often within a framework of reciprocity, to carry out certain rituals in the Amerindian communities of Quebec. Finally, one cannot analyze Indigenous religious landscapes with­ out recognizing how they also take shape within major branches of Christianity, especially due to the historic influence of the Catholic and Protestant (often Anglican) churches and the rapid expansion of Pentecostalism in the twentieth century.7 The Catholic Church, by way of its missionaries (seventeeth century and nineteenth century among the Atikamekw), advocated the eradication of certain practices, within the public sphere as well as within the more remote setting of hunting encampments. Today, Catholicism carries the heavy legacy of Indian residential schools and assimilation, even if it is still followed by many elders.8 Not only have Indigenous groups developed strategies of resistance towards missionaries, but they have also reconceptualized their worldview by appropriating various dimensions of Catholicism, Protestantism, and other religious movements.9

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It is in this context that this chapter explores the relationship between musical and religious landscapes through the experience of a group of young Atikamekw drum players and singers from the Wemotaci community (Haute­Mauricie, Central Quebec).10 While many studies in anthropology and in ethnomusicology have dealt with the manifold musical traditions of North America’s First Nations, few have considered the creativity and innovations tied to the prac­ tice of the drum, or tewehikan in nehirâmowin, the Atikamekw language.11 Historian Michael D. McNally’s work with the Ojibwe offers interesting points of comparison when he analyzes points of continuity and rupture in Ojibwe hymns.12 In the musical worlds of Quebec’s and Canada’s First Nations, what does tewehikan’s music reveal about Indigenous religious cosmologies and landscapes? What social, historical, political, and religious dynamics does this practice reveal? How can we view religious landscapes between continuity and transformation, between tradition and innovation, in light of the drum’s music? Reacting to a first version of this text, the words of an Atikamekw elder can serve as a point of departure: The concept of tradition is a Western concept. If you consider ontology, the opposition between popular music and traditional music is an unacceptable technical distinction. (Charles Coocoo, October 2005, reacting to this text) This chapter is based on regular trips to Wemotaci since June 2001 and a presence in the community between spring 2003 and winter 2004.13 However, the knowledge embodied in drumming practice is not confined within the spatial framework of the village. The community of Wemotaci serves as a point of departure towards other places, be it in urban settings or on the Atikamekw ancestral territory, the Nitaskinan. As a social anthropologist, I conducted semidirected interviews and travelled around Quebec and Canada with the drum group to create an ethnography of drumming through the eyes of young Atikamekw. Through informal discussions and more formal exchanges with drum­ mers, their friends, their family and other Atikamekw Nehriwosiwok, in family camps or in households, during the group’s trips outside the

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community, sharing foods and meats (see Joseph in this volume for the significance of commensality in identity construction process and affir­ mation), I came to know this group of young drum players who have reappropriated a practice that was forbidden as early as the mid­sev­ enteenth century by Catholic missionaries. I specify “Catholic mission­ aries” because the Atikamekw people dealt with francophone Catholic priests, which is why the second Atikamekw language is French unlike, for example, the Eeyou (Cree) who speak Eeyou and English due to the historical presence of the Anglican Church. This chapter is thus not an ethnomusicological analysis of the drum’s music. It is based on an itinerant ethnography of daily life and reveals the continuity but also the transformation and adapta­ tion of an ancestral practice shared with other groups in Canada and the United States. Powwow music and drumming is common among North American native cultures and traditions, following similar rules, protocols, beats, and gestures.14 It is thus part of a “pan­Indian” process of ritual and cultural exchanges. The “powwow trail” (a cir­ cuit of different powwows) shows how little importance federal, pro­ vincial, regional, or local borders should play in our understanding of aboriginal religious landscapes. Nevertheless, it is also important to note that the political situation of the Atikamkew Nation is almost unique in Quebec and Canada: like the Innu Nation, the Atikamekw Nehirowisiw did not sign any treaty or agreement with federal or provincial governments. Political resistance is thus intertwined with cultural resistance and identity formation: singing in the Atikamekw language, nehirâmowin, affirms the drummers’ independence and difference from other groups in Canada and the United States who no longer speak their traditional languages. It is a major source of creativity and pride for both men and women.15

issues of “tradition” and “traditional” music In an issue of Recherches amérindiennes au Québec devoted to “the power of sounds,” ethnomusicologist James Preston underlined the transformations that have taken place in the use and meaning of music among the Cree of eastern James Bay.16 He provided an anal­

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ysis of different forms of music that then made up this group’s musi­ cal landscape: traditional Cree songs and dances, European dances and fiddle tunes, Anglican hymns, country music, the religious chants of Christian fundamentalists, rock music and pan­Amerin­ dian “traditional” songs and dances. In his approach to these musi­ cal transformations, Preston devoted only a few lines to rock music foregrounding the idea that this music represented a break with tradition: “Rock, reserved for the young, expresses the ambitions and feelings of rejection they generally experience, and has no Cree content I can discern, apart from a slightly plaintive tone added to the typical rock voice.”17 The author noted how, in this soundscape of the Eastern Cree, rock music was among the types of music that sharply reflected the intergenerational gap, as much by the content of the message as by the attitude it conveys. In many respects, rock music is for him synonymous with “a significantly transformed Cree identity and culture, drawing inspiration from a ‘media culture’ that is essential to its transcultural existence, more than from continuity with Cree culture itself.”18 In light of Preston’s study, one might consider drum practice as “more traditional” because, as we will see below, it conveys, mobilizes, and references a number of local bodies of knowledge defined here as social codes, know­how, and ways of being in the world rooted in the memory of the Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok and transmitted from generation to generation. These local bodies of knowledge influence the way in which the Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok act and interact in the world, be it with humans or with non­human entities populating the environment. One would quickly come to the conclusion, still following Preston, that drum music constitutes less of a break with Atikamekw “culture” than rock music does with Cree culture.19 In other words, tewehikan would be more traditional than guitar, tradi­ tional music being positioned over against popular music.20 And yet, pop rock­folk music has become a “tradition” in the soundscape of many First Nations: Innu performers Philippe McKenzie, Kashtin, Florent Vollant, Maten, or Brian André have contributed to establishing this style of music among the young. Indeed, the Innu Nikamu music festival of the Mani­Utenam

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community, on Quebec’s Lower North Shore has been organized every year for the last twenty­five years. Collective drum practice is meeting with growing success in Quebec among the younger gen­ erations, as is rap and hip­hop. Does this popularization actually bring about a downgrading of its traditional and ancestral charac­ ter? Does it put into question its continuity with Atikamekw “cul­ ture”? When the concepts of culture and tradition are viewed in terms of rupture, the analysis of musical transformations is just as constrained as the analysis of societal ones. How are we to ascribe coefficients of “traditionalness” or authenticity to a cultural practice or a musical style? Here we remind the reader of Charles Coocoo’s reaction, cited by way of introduction. To refer to the concepts of culture or tradition in terms of rupture comes down to denying their dynamic character, one that is creative and adaptive in time and space. And to deny this dynamic character means seeking the image of that “authentic Indian” that reinforces a viewpoint that still has a firm hold on Western observers: that of the disappearance of traditions and of the complete Westernization of Indigenous societies. And yet, many studies interested in the uses of “tradition” in various contexts have demonstrated that it cannot be perceived as a stable heritage received from the past but as a dynamic vision.21 In contrast with the young converts to Pentecostalism dis­ cussed by Mossière in this volume who effect a conscious rupture with their religious (or nonreligious) pasts, this group of young drummers, like many young indigenous people today, produce innovations that are inspired by a continuity with the heritage of their ancestors and their attendant cosmologies. This dynamism is expressed well by Lenclud when he writes that tradition “is tradi­ tionally invented and recreated.”22 For Lindstrom, tradition is an attempt to “read the present in terms of the past by writing the past in terms of the present.”23 These authors have long since decon­ structed the idea that transmission, conveyed in the very concept of tradition, is identical reproduction.24 Tradition, in its relation to the past, is inscribed even for Pouillon in an inverted filiation: fathers do not beget sons, fathers are born of their sons.25 Lenclud thus follows Pouillon in asserting that, “it is not the past that produces

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the present but the present that fashions its own past.”26 These pro­ cesses arise out of an exchange between an “interpreted past” and an “interpreting present,”27 consecrating tradition as a work in the pres­ ent that seeks validity in references to the past.28 There is no shortage of formulas insisting on the dynamic character of traditions, a dyna­ mism common to all societies. Yet such rigid interpretations of tradition persist, including in Indigenous circles. For example, the urban Indian is less authentic than the one living in a remote community, we sometimes hear. And the Indian living in a remote community is less authentic than the one living in or close to the forest. Finally, young Indians are less authentic than their elders. The apple – red on the outside, white on the inside – is an expression often used to disqualify an Indigenous “authenticity.” What are we to think then of those who live in urban settings, representing nowadays close to 50 per cent of the Indigenous population of Canada? To be labelled “urban Indigenous” presents certain identity problems with respect to this purported authenticity, since belonging is not tied to the traditional activities practiced on ancestral lands. How should we look upon young Indigenous who, for various reasons (economic, material, work­ or study­related) cannot participate in traditional activities with the same intensity as their elders? It is in this sense that Zacharie Awashish, an Atikamekw elder, notes in the film Identités atikamekw: Nowadays, life is not as it used to be. And I cannot predict the future. I am basing myself on my experience, on my own way of life. I cannot judge the young and their future. We have had our visions; the young will have theirs. We have been initiated; we let the young be initiated. How are they going to manage?29 Among the Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok, the practice of tewehikan is not exempt from this idealized representation of the past and from the judgments, and even accusations, which may go along with it: “The Atikamekw are not drum players, they are hunters.”30 And yet, since the Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok are hunters, they are also drum players (as we will see in the next section). The intimate, personal,

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spiritual practice of the tewehikan associated with the hunt and cer­ tain ritual contexts has also been the object of renewed attention.

history of maskopirecic, memory of tewehikan The group Maskopirecic was formed a few months after a visit by an Anishnaabe (Ojibwe) drum group from Rama (Ontario) as part of a colloquium on violence organized in the Wemotaci community in August 1993. The impetus came from two brothers then aged fif­ teen and seventeen. The visit of this Anishnaabe group did not reveal a hitherto unknown practice. One of these two brothers had even discovered it for the first time in Alberta, in 1990, when he was thir­ teen, during the North American Indigenous Games. Following this colloquium in the summer of 1993 and after the month of September spent in reflection, the two brothers decided to sing in front of their grandfather during the cultural weeks of the month of October.31 The drum was then a pail covered with a raincoat. Their grandfather provided them with their name of maskopirecic (bear bird). He said it was in a time when drums were forbidden and burned. At that time, there was an elder who never wanted to dance during festivals and to fiddle music. He said the elder told everyone he would dance the day he would again hear the song of the bear bird. He thought this elder would dance today if he could have heard us. (D.B. relating the words of his grandfather, October 2003) The historical eradication of drum practice in the seventeenth century, and nineteenth century for the Atikamekw, in favour of the fiddle, can here serve as a key to understanding this story. In an era when the Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok were called “Têtes de Boule,” anthropologist Frank G. Speck noted that in the Jesuit Relations, Every Têtes de Boule, or White Fish Indian, according to James Buteux (Jesuit, 1641), had a sorcerer’s drum, which was every­ thing to him, giving it to a priest being considered unconditional

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surrender to the faith. Father Buteux was busy burning in bon­ fires drums, which have been given to him.32 The terms “diabolical,” “sorcerer,” “magical,” “superstitious” abound in the Relations to refer to drum practice as well as other practices such as the sweat lodge. “As for their superstitious chants, they resort to them in a thousand actions,” wrote French Jesuit missionary Paul Lejeune: They resort to these chants, to this drum and to these noises or racket in their illnesses, I have declared it amply enough last year, but since that time, I have seen this poor Sorcerer try to heal him­ self by so much nonsense, rubbish, trifle and racket ...33 During his 1651 mission, Father Buteux, the first missionary in Mauricie, was thus happy to witness the success of his actions and the reach of his words: “I was brought the drums and other supersti­ tious instruments which the Jugglers, whose trade is conjuring, use in resorting to the demons they invoke.”34 While these archives depict the Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok as fer­ vent converts, destroying even those drums that had not been handed over to the missionaries, oral history conveys another vision that sheds light on the persistence of bodies of knowledge tied to the practice of the tewehikan: a few elders simulated this flawless Catholic faith only to go on playing the drum outside the community, in the wood, safely away from the missionaries.35 An Atikamekw toponym, tewehikan pawictikw,36 the drum rapids, located a few hundred meters downstream from Wemotaci, supports the idea that the practice was perpetuated safely away from the missionary gaze. “It is said that it is there that certain elders absconded to play drums,” one interviewee told me.37 According to other people with whom I spoke, a mountain located in the vicinity of the rapids also served as a refuge.38 Though the literature has dwelt little on contemporary drum music, many studies have documented its uses and function in vari­ ous ritual contexts.39 They have shown how the drum is used by the ritual officiants (not to use the term “shaman”) or by the hunter to

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establish communication and dialogue with animals. It has been per­ ceived as a personal object denoting a power and particular function in specific ritual actions and expressions acting as an intermediate tool between a human reality and a nonhuman one. Brightman notes for instance that, for the Northern Cree, “people say that playing the drum and singing is a way of praying or asking animals and other nonhuman agencies for gifts of food.”40 Across Canada, the drum can take various forms. The Inuit quilaut41 is very different from the Innu teueikan, itself very different from the framed drums of the Northern Athapascans.42 It varies according to its practice, which can be individual (hand drum) or collective, as for the Atikamkew drummers. More than a mere musical instrument or communication tool, the tewehikan is also a concept that illumi­ nates an Atikamekw cosmology shared with other Indigenous groups of the great seminomadic Algonquian language family. The drum (dewe’igan in Ojibwe, teueikan in Innu, or tewehikan in Atikamekw) as voice, shouts, chants, heart beats, and soul beats: these are some of the translations of the term that have been suggested to me by this group’s young singers. According to dif­ ferent people with whom I have spoken, tewehikan is built from the root ote-, otehi referring to the heart.43 Otehi, like all body parts (wiaw, the body) fits into the grammatical category of the inanimate genre. Unlike the root that forms it, the term tewehikan belongs to the category of animate nouns. Therefore, we must not only take into account the suffix ­we (­wehi), which refers to the idea of vibration and sound, and the suffix ­kan (or ­kana), which refers to the idea of “being used for, allowing to,” but also to that of conserving and containing.44 Tewehikan would then be, according to this perspective and in a rough English equivalent, the guardian of the sounds of the heart or what is used to broad­ cast the sounds of the heart. The bodies of knowledge of the tewehikan refer to a perception extending beyond the mere musical instrument and communication medium. Speck noted that one of his informants perceived the drum as a living entity, with a head and a body.45 Individual drum practices are also connected with collective practices, in the sense that the same

figure 3.1 Black Bear singers from Manawan at Wemotaci Powwow.

figure 3.2 Wemotashee singer at Kahnawake Powwow.

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“rules” apply, whether one is using a single hand drum or a collective drum with a number of players. In either case, each player retains the same responsibility in terms of how the self is integrated into rituals and into intimate, personal relationships. Playing tewehikan, be it for the ritual’s officiant or for today’s drummers, is to acquire bodies of knowledge conveyed by a collective memory and transmitted to the Atikamekw person who demonstrates openness to receiving it. This knowledge contains rules, meanings, values, and codes of reciprocity (feeding, protecting, cov­ ering, celebrating the drum, not leaving it alone in a reclining posi­ tion) that must be valued in order to be worthy of the relationship that is being created. The position of drum guardian is an explicit reminder of this issue of responsibility.46 Despite the various missionary attempts at eradication, the tewehikan today finds expression in various spheres of community life: through public events (colloquia on violence, in schools or daycares, to open consultations on political and land claims ...) or as part of specific ritual contexts (at the request of families, as was the case in the winter of 2003 to honour the memory of a deceased member of the commu­ nity). The ages of the Maskopirecic drummers, between twenty­five and forty, seems to embody the transitional generation framed by two reference points: that of a seminomadic way of life (a nomadism cen­ tralized in family lands before sedentarization) and the contemporary way of life associated with the community that was constructed at its current site in the 1970s. In that sense, some of the young drummers consider that they “were the first children of this community.”47 These two reference points and the problems involved in reconcil­ ing them are not without intergenerational tensions, especially when it comes to the experience of transmission. While most elders (among others) are of the opinion that the young are not ready to be imparted with certain bodies of knowledge due to their lack of attention, respect, and ability to listen, the young end up being neither in a traditional pos­ ture of receiving (only cultural weeks represent a framework conducive to transmission by experience) nor in a voluntary process of receiving (few young people ask their elders questions, even if, paradoxically, most of them find this absence of communication regrettable).48

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The growing desire to learn how to play tewehikan, expressed by the young drummers to their grandfather, caused the latter to wish to transmit certain knowledge by way of a narrative and also by the conferral of a name: maskopirecic. For many elders though, the ones who are attached to the Catholic religion, the tewehikan belongs to those practices that still need to be forgotten, which explains the reluctance that some of them have showed toward it. According to several people, the community’s annual powwow, organized for more than ten years, has represented a crucial stage in this reception: “At the beginning, for the first powwow [1997], there were elders who remained far behind, they looked on, hidden. But little by little, they came closer and today we can see some of them dancing with the people.”49 There also existed another type of powwow in the community in the 1980s. Each year, for five days, various activities were organized (including canoe and portage races, and logging contests). Contemporary powwows are consid­ ered more sacred than these festive and playful gatherings and, out of respect for the tradition and ancestors, any alcohol and drug consumption is proscribed. The sale of alcohol is even banned in the village during the entire weekend.50 While it refers to comprehensive bodies of local knowledge that endure through time, the collective practice of the tewehikan cannot be understood without taking into account the relationship to other nations. It is first through them that these young people have discov­ ered the tewehikan. Powwow music also reveals how “the way to be with tewehikan” is expressed in another form of know­how.

“powwow music” Various studies have documented pan­Amerindian gatherings in the United States and the Canadian prairies called powwows (opwakancimowin in Atikamekw), which mostly take place yearly between May and November.51 Jack Campisi viewed the powwow as an event whose purpose is to “mirror what the Indians think a White thinks an Indian is”; in other words, the powwow is a representation of white people’s representations about Indians.52 But more than a

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festive folkloric gathering and more than this ethnostalgic image con­ veyed a priori in the clothing used (regalia), the facial paints of cer­ tain dancers, and the drum chants, the contemporary powwow is a space of exchange and interaction (family, intergenerational conver­ gence), leisure and physical effort (craftsmanship in the preparation of regalia, dances), work and economy (prizes, stands, crafts, food), social relations, and meetings between Indigenous and non­Indige­ nous people. For many, powwows have great spiritual value and can also be an occasion for debating a variety of societal issues.53 In powwows, drum practice is inseparable from songs and dances (each drum song corresponds to a specific type of dance), as it is from other instruments such as the rattle and the sacred eagle whistle. The drums, dances, and songs are to be seen as elements tightly bound up with pan­Amerindian ritual practices, and the contemporary for­ mula of the powwow is no exception. Preston for instance notes that these pan­Amerindian musical practices, which appeared in the late 1970s, just like ancient forms of song containing a spiritual message, deal with the expression of relations with nonhuman entities and take their inspiration from concepts conveyed by spiritual figures going back before the missionary era (kitcemanito, the great spirit; kokotce, bad spirit, the monster).54 Powwows can either be traditional (traditional powwow) or com­ petitive (contest powwow). A powwow’s traditional character is not defined by a kind of flawless respect for ancestral traditions, but rather is a specific type of powwow centred on concepts of social cohesion and well­being, drawing from spiritual elements shared by a great many Indigenous groups (regular tobacco offerings, sage purification, healing dances). In traditional powwows, there is little (or no) competition; at most there is a succession of different types of dances that may be observed at all powwows: intertribal dances, traditional men, and jingle dress. Families also often make special requests aimed at honouring a deceased person or at helping a sick person. The contest powwow is not without such spiritual references, but, as the name suggests, it is defined by its competitive character: dancers and drum groups must demonstrate their respective quali­ ties, skills, and abilities. Evaluation by judges has as much to do with

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figure 3.3 Closing drum song at Wemotaci Powwow.

the performance qualities of the dances and drum practice as with respect for the relations contained in knowledge about the drum: songs in tune with the type of dance requested, active participation of

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figure 3.4 Wapan Boivin performing a traditional men’s dance.

all the singers, collective synchronization in beats and voices, cleanli­ ness around the drum. The relation between nations is expressed through exchanges with singers, dancers, drum guardians, and elders coming from a variety of communities in Quebec, Canada, and the United States but also with singers hailing from Canada’s greater urban areas, such as Ottawa or Toronto. These meetings and gatherings with other realities allowed the drummers to measure their own experience as Atikamekw, for instance through issues of language: It is by travelling that we became aware of a certain wealth. We realized we still had our language, which was not the case for the other singers. So it was two surprises: for us, realizing that, but also for them, such as Plains groups who often speak only English, as they discovered we spoke amongst ourselves in our own language. (A.C., August 2003)

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These many exchanges influence their way of living drum practice, since it is through contact with other drum groups on the powwow circuit that the singers of Maskopirecic have developed their art. But what does the music of tewehikan refer to within the framework of these powwows? There are two types of collective drums: contemporary drums (also called powwow drums) and sacred drums (also called tradi­ tional drums). The musical organization brings into play four musi­ cal actors: the drum, the arm, the stick (or drum stick, seen as the arm’s extension), and the voice. Gathered in groups of three to twelve members seated in a circle around a drum, the singers strike the drum with sustained, regular beats, sometimes slowly accelerating over the course of the song. These beats determine the tempo the voices have to follow. Powwows constitute spaces of creation within which music styles (Northern Style, Southern Style, or Contemporary Style) evolve by a constant search for originality that makes it possible to stand out from the other groups. It is common to see the members of one group joining another one for the duration of a song. What is exchanged in this case has to do with voice techniques or songs composed by another group. This familiarization with realities that are at times common and shared, at other times original, has strongly encouraged the drummers’ openness to other realities lived outside their community and their nation. Meetings, travels, the desire to break with the community’s everyday life, and an ever­growing rec­ ognition from a general public are some of the reasons drummers continue on the powwow circuit. Such recognition nowadays consti­ tutes many groups’ objective and generates a process of profession­ alization of the practice.

from maskopirecic to wemotashee singers After the fall 1993 Culture Week, the group gradually widened. The pail covered with a raincoat was successively replaced by an empty tree trunk, then by a battery bass drum, before the group was able to gather enough money to buy a drum made by a Cree elder. Spaces and contexts of expression have also multiplied. For its first

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exterior performance, the group went to Quebec City as part of a cultural sensitivity development event. It then travelled to Montreal to play as part of a conference on Indigenous youth. In May 1995, Maskopirecic took part in its first powwow, held in Ottawa. A few months later, they were asked to perform at the Native Friendship Centre of Montreal. These cultural functions, just as much as the powwows, spurred the drummers to travel in the United States, in New Hampshire and Maine. In April 1999, they went to the pow­ wow organized by the Saskatchewan Indian Federated College (sifc), an academic institution created in 1976 and part of the University of Regina, to promote training among Indigenous people and empha­ size an Indigenous perception of education. During the summer of 2000, they travelled to Switzerland as part of an event organized to celebrate cultural difference. There they met representatives of the Blackfoot, Cheyenne and Chuktchi. The group went on to do the powwow circuit in Canada until 2007. It has now given way to other drummer groups in the community. In its search for originality, the group has integrated songs in Atikamekw that represent a significant part of its creative process, revealing elements of continuity with traditional religious systems and opening the way for drumming groups to come: Pitakecimok [Great Entry] Merwacin ota oma nimetowin [It’s true that it’s beautiful where people are made to dance] Etce tewehekeyak [When the drum is played] Skenawa pasikok pitakecimok [Everyone gets up for the great entry] Kikawino (Mother Earth)

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Micthahi nimeretenan [We are really happy] Kikawino otci katatomak oma [About what we’re doing for Mother Earth] Oma kawapatamak ota [About what you see there] epe nikamoyak [When we sing] Matisiwin (Life) Tepue mako ke ne matesiyan [It’s true that we live] Acit ki yawa ke matesiyinaw [And that you too will live] Kecta minotakon motcak ohe [We will always do what we’re doing with pleasure] Sokan (force, power) Aci menowatc nikamonan [Today we sing] Ekoci tca sokecemo [Come and give everything you have in the dance] Se nta nemehi mikona [Come and make your feathers move] The different songs presented here are excerpted from the Wemotashee Singers’ first album. Because the vocal performance requires great mastery, the lyrics are few. Unlike Innu pop rock music, Algonquin rap (Samian), Innu reggae­ragga (Shauit), or any other musical creation aimed at expressing certain messages inspired by daily life, the search for originality in powwow music is less about the quantity and succession of lyrics than it is about the ability to integrate

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lyrics to the song, in one’s mother tongue. For many, the lyrics must be in the image of the powwow, “a celebration of life.”55 Thus the various styles (Northern Style, Southern Style, and Contemporary Style) are no longer passively rendered through the group’s different songs, but inte­ grated in an active process of creation. This creativity is also expressed through an investment in the economic possibilities of any artistic cre­ ation. Being invited to powwows as host drum, winning first place in contest powwows, looking for an original character that sets one apart from other groups, finding funds to record and sell CDs are the main concerns of drum groups. The cultural responsibility implied in this practice is thus combined with a professional responsibility, made pos­ sible by the frequency of powwows, Indigenous festivals, intercultural days, or galas. For some, drumming groups and dancers entering the powwow trail between May and November represents a professional activity they sometimes share with their entire families. There are those who do not hesitate to develop an economy tied to drum practice, as can be shown by the example of the group msr (Morning Star River), whose members live in the Greater Toronto urban area. In an article devoted to the group msr in the journal say (Spirit of Aboriginal Youth, spring 2004), one of the drummers acknowledges that, during powwows, many young people wear top brand clothing betraying hip­hop influ­ ences directly connected to their urban experience.56 For him, pow­ wow “culture” and the music that flows from it represent an influence similar to urban hip­hop, in terms of its ability to express younger generations’ individual and collective experiences of identity. Starting from this notion, the group msr has decided to develop lines of cloth­ ing associated with drumming and powwows. The craze for tewehikan music among Indigenous youth is evident through the development of many groups in Quebec (such as the Cree, Atikamekw, and Algonquin), as well as the yearly success of the Schemitzun (Connecticut) World Championship of Song and Dance and the Albuquerque (New Mexico) Gathering of Nations. These examples demonstrate how concepts of leisure (musical tastes, travel) and work (professionalization of prac­ tice) are positioned today beside rules and social codes, know­how and life wisdom, cultural and spiritual meaning and values in the definition

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of a “traditional practice.”57 Through their various representations, the drummers have moved toward realities that largely go beyond the community’s borders. Their journey toward identity has been suc­ cessfully achieved in the process, starting from Atikamekw memory, history, and knowledge, and in relation with other Indigenous and non­Indigenous groups and nations with which they have measured differences and convergences.

conclusion One of the first challenges for young Atikamekw is to formulate their role and construct their experience as a continuation of and in close relationship to previous generations, which each have their own responsibilities in the contemporary context. The Atikamekw elders, men and women who knew the nomadic way of life, have become icons in the processes of supporting and promoting culture and tra­ ditions. They are considered the caretakers of local knowledge and are regularly consulted as guides. The case discussed in this paper is an example of the ties between generations, between past and pres­ ent. These ties form a continuous cycle, a perpetual rebirth of local cosmology. It clarifies the importance placed upon the dynamics of knowledge transmission and intergenerational and familial relations among the First Nations. Drumming and participating in powwow is not solely a form of leisure for the members of drum groups. The drum is a living entity. It is a reference to and a part of a complex cosmological system. For example, tobacco offerings to the drum are a sign of respect and a way to feed the drum. It is also a way to thank the drum for his strength and his powerful sounds and beats. To permit the circulation of non­ humans entities, the drum does not touch the ground when it is used. A drum that is not in use must be positioned vertically and dressed with a blanket. The fabrication of the drums, the different types of dances, clothing (regalia), songs, and powwow protocols are all signs of the deeply religious significance of contemporary powwows. In April 2015, a proposed Radio­Canada tv program caused quite a stir. Entitled Pow Wow, this weekly show was supposed to bring

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together non­Indigenous artists with diverse musical influences. They would answer the hosts’ questions and discuss songs about their life, inspirations, and journeys. However, when the program’s title was announced on 20 April 2015 it created controversy. The same day, the young Innu poet Natasha Kanapé Fontaine denounced it as an unacceptable and insulting cultural appropriation with respect to the history, memory, and recognition of Quebec’s Indigenous peoples: [W]e Indigenous People, descendants of Ancestors and Elders who experienced colonization or the slaughter, or crushing of their identity, and thus of their culture, and thus of their language, their lands of origin, lands as bases of their identity, we must protect our cultural, philosophical, spiritual heritage as much as our material and immaterial heritage from erroneous use through an instance of ignorance or colonial lack of awareness.58 (My translation) This reaction, as swift as it was hard­hitting, triggered a wave of protests in Quebec Indigenous circles, culminating less than a week later in the abandonment of the program title. Some Quebec journal­ ists were outraged by what they held to be the exaggerated character of the protest, comparing the use of the term powwow to that of other Indigenous terms that have become part of everyday language, like “anorak” (Inuktitut), “ouaouaron” (Iroquoian), or “toboggan” (Algonquian). For these journalists, this was proof that Indigenous heritage was respected and had deeply penetrated Quebec’s collec­ tive memory! However, commentators only considered powwows’ playful character, ignoring the ever­growing place of these gatherings in the cultural and spiritual practices of Québécois Indigenous com­ munities. Beyond their undeniable festive dimensions, powwows are one of the current expressions of Indigenous people’s resistance and resilience. They are a reminder of history, an appreciation of collec­ tive memory, a celebration of worldviews and cosmology that are very much alive. They are connected to colonial history and belong to the current processes of affirmation of identity and culture among many groups. When we delve into the meaning of the Atikamekw term expressing the concept of powwow, we better understand the

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sacred character of these gatherings: Opwakancimowin means the spirit dance. This example raises the issue of the sacralization of the past and traditions as well as the inevitable question of the political lever­ aging of traditions and “culture.”59 Like “tradition,” “culture” is present everywhere. “Even Australian Aborigines who until recently were not aware of having a ‘culture’,” writes Poirier, “are now often invited to give ‘cultural performances’ at national and international events.”60 “Tradition” and “culture” have become privileged political tools for the recognition of a distinct identity. Music is not exempt from these strategies. For instance, Reyniers shows how, for a Gipsy music group from a community in Transylvania, it was less a matter of transmission of a musical tradition than of transmission through music and dance of a strategy of collective affirmation.61 Here, the practice of tewehikan and the transmission of the bodies of knowl­ edge connected with it are integrated in a process that is answer­ ing to mechanisms of forgetting, borrowing, adaptation, innovation. The tewehikan’s music, as it is practiced and lived by a group of Atikamekw young adults from Wemotaci, allows us to see negotia­ tions underway as part of the elaboration of a continuity, in spite of the intensity and frequency of the ruptures that have marked, and continue to mark, the daily life of these young players in particular, and of the Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok more generally. The practice of tewehikan can be located beside other spiritual and ritual practices and initiatives that have been valued at Wemotaci since the early 1980s: rites of the first time, such as the newborn ceremony (Cawerimawasowin) or the first steps ceremony (Orowitahawasowin), sweat lodges (matotasiwin), the conferral of Atikamekw first names (Sikon, pre­spring; Wapan, dawn; Mikona, feather; Atisoko, sto­ rytelling), tobacco offerings or the use of the medicine wheel. The Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok also organize days of reflection on vari­ ous issues: the first young Atikamekw summit (July 2005), spiritual gatherings (2004, 2006, 2009), elder conferences (1999, 2001, 2003, 2005, 2007), the first Atikamekw land summit (July 2005), are all ini­ tiatives denoting a will to value and transmit knowledge pertaining to land, education, transmission by experience, language protection. This

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process also finds expression during culture weeks organized twice a year, in spring and autumn. They represent an additional opportunity to practice certain activities such as hunting, trapping, fishing, or ritual practices on family lands. On the one hand, there are traditional or contest powwows, there are ceremonies in the community, there is our relationship to the world, respect for the drum. On the other hand, there is also business: colloquia, lectures, festivals. But these two sides, that’s our way of life. Our way of life is not just the woods. You also have to earn a living. I for one hunt, I trap, and at the same time, I have a pick­up. Is that enough to make me less traditional, less Atikamekw? (A.C., February 2004) While those different initiatives are part of the current process of affirmation of Atikamekw identity, they are not institutionalized in a political resistance movement. They are part of an appreciation of the concept of Nehiro Pimatisiwin, the Atikamekw way of life, as an Atikamekw worldview making it possible for younger generations especially, but also for the whole of Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok, to value practices and ancestral bodies of knowledge corresponding to an Atikamekw perception of contemporary realities. Resistance can be expressed in other ways and in particular through the suspicion that some have developed toward researchers and experts from the outside, by a questioning of research methods, and by an emphatic claim to intimacy that rejects the foreign gaze.62 These different ways of perceiving struggles and identity claims are also bound up in the practice of tewehikan.

4 T’beet: Situating Iraqi Jewish Identity through Food Norma Baumel Joseph Food figures significantly in identity formation. It is a pliable vehi­ cle for expressing one’s distinctiveness, being quickly adaptable to changed lifestyles and circumstances. Culinary and commensal pat­ terns affect religious devotion while sustaining everyday existence. They also link individuals to communities, while nourishing connec­ tions to a past heritage or to a sacred concept of “home.” In the nineteenth century, French gastronome Jean Anthelm Brillat­Savarin famously stated, “Tell me what you eat, and I shall tell you what you are.”1 Applying this appreciation of the place of food to one small group of Jews in Quebec highlights a diversity of ethnic accommoda­ tions and adaptations, and underlines the potential of food research in the fields of religion and ethnic studies. All humans must eat; this is a biological fact. The ways in which we attempt to satisfy that requirement are implicated in the social con­ struction of all aspects of our lives. Foodways are cultural highways. Food patterns communicate symbolic meanings and contain cultural codes, functioning to maintain ethnic and national identities. From communal celebrations to personal preferences, our dietary habits reveal much about who we are and how we live. Judaism has a rich and complex position related to food and its sacred potential.2 With dietary restrictions and rituals of feasting, Jewish life is surrounded by foodways, but few look at this phenomenon for its inner diversity and distinctiveness.3 Most significantly in this study, food differences within the Jewish world reveal religious configurations and distinctions of identity that are rarely discussed. An examination of one iconic food

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discloses many attributes of the new Iraqi Jewish identity in Montreal. It is a significantly different identity from other local Sephardic Jewish communities.4 It is even more noticeably different from the majority Ashkenazic community of Quebec, yet it is also vibrant and nurtures a strong attachment to being Iraqi, Jewish, and Canadian.5

jewish food Food clearly has a special status in Jewish religious and cultural pat­ terns. Although this is true for many groups, it is particularly central to Jewish self­identification. Beginning with the basic, often routine, yet not infrequently convoluted laws of kashrut (i.e. food considered fit for human consumption), foodways in Judaism mark a path of daily, ritual, and festival use that is a reflection and indicator of com­ munal patterns and standards. When those patterns change, track­ ing changes in food configurations can isolate shifts in identities and in social patterns of integration and relationship. Since Jews have migrated frequently and food is highly transparent and adaptable, research into Jewish food is constructive. Looking for consistencies, congruities, and dissimilarities in Jewish food patterns offers social scientists a laboratory for analyses.6 What is Jewish food? While there may be many answers to this query, there is one classification of food that is unique to Jews and is of consequence to this study. Every Jewish community has cre­ ated a special dish to fulfill the ritual requirements of the Sabbath. Since cooking is forbidden, Jewish cooks world over developed some sort of stew that could be placed in the oven overnight. Prepared on Friday afternoon, the stew was eaten Saturday at lunch, enabling the family to have a hot meal without necessitating the forbidden light­ ing of a fire. Every known Jewish community had a recipe for this unique dish. Each one used different ingredients and called it by a dif­ ferent name: cholent, dafina, hamim, t’beet. Filled with beans, barley, potatoes, beef bones, chicken, rice, eggs, or wheat kernels, the dish was a basic stew designed to be slow­cooked, filling, and hot. It was definitely not gourmet cooking. Rather a low­end item on the scale of a cook’s repertoire, it soon became a memorable icon of all things

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good and homemade.7 Instead of memorials to mother and apple pie, Jewish writers wrote poems to mother’s cholent. In 1850 Heinrich Heine wrote of schalet (cholent) “Schalet is the food of heaven ... Schalet is the kosher ambrosia.”8 As Jewish communities moved from place to place, they took their recipes for this Sabbath stew with them, transposing and translat­ ing them as they went. In each new location the dish took on new ingredients and styles, yet it always remained the ritual stew of the Sabbath, its consumption reserved to that day. Iraqi Jews, forced to leave Iraq by the harsh regimes of their onetime friendly neighbours, generated an exception to this model in at least one of their com­ munities. A new pattern emerged: the Sabbath t’beet of Baghdad became the iconic Iraqi Jewish dish of Montreal. No longer specific to Saturday, it became an indispensable element of Iraqi Jewish iden­ tity. This phenomenon of rupture, transference, and reconstruction is the topic of this chapter.

situating iraqi jewish identity 9 Jews from Baghdad began arriving in Montreal, Canada in the early 1950s. Some were elders of the community; most were young adults with or without children. Their exodus from Iraq was not easy nor was it the result of a long sought after dream. They were well edu­ cated, sophisticated, and involved in the world of trade and social gatherings. The memories they recounted to me are filled with the good times of fun, family, friends, and travel.10 They did not want to leave their precious home, the land between two rivers, as it was lovingly called. Nevertheless, they perceived danger and felt they had no choice, they had to go: their once privileged status no longer pro­ tected them, and even their deep sense of belonging could not hold them. The caesura happened at a definite historical moment. Life for Jews in Iraq had become increasingly intolerable starting in the early 1940s. There were periods of calm and even luxury, but inevitably, the peace was punctuated by dreadful hangings and sudden pogroms (i.e., the Farhoud of 1941).11 Faced with persecutions and arbitrary restrictions, escape became vital.

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In Canada, the majority of families, having no planned destina­ tion, ended up in Montreal. They lost much in their transplanta­ tion. Their heritage in Iraq was approximately 2,500 years old; they were the generations of the Babylonian exile and the people of the Babylonian Talmud. They missed that sense of establishment, confi­ dence, and historic continuity. Their pride as Jews was challenged in Montreal and their concept of their community was equally tested as it underwent serious shifts. Yet they somehow retained their sense of themselves as Iraqi or Babylonian Jews and, holding on to that identity, they remained singularly unified.12 Their immigration pat­ tern differed from other Canadian and Jewish cohorts.13 Although they arrived following the style of a chain migration, this group sev­ ered its ties completely with the place of origin. They spoke lovingly of Baghdad but had no intention of ever returning. Additionally, the group that came to Montreal were a well­educated unit; many came from the upper class of Iraqi Jewish society. Upon establishing their presence in Montreal, they continued to remain in close contact for at least three generations. Remarkably, this close knit community of Iraqi Jews is an example of commu­ nal cohesion that defies sociological predictions of religious decline and assimilation. Although the community is not a ritually practis­ ing one, according to classical Orthodox Jewish tenets, it has neither disintegrated nor assimilated. Many of the third generation still live in Montreal and are still integrated into the context of the struc­ tured community. Few intermarried and even those that did were still considered part of the Iraqi community. They are still proud Iraqi Jews.14 Thus theirs is not a narrowly defined “religious” identity but an ethnic/cultural one with critical and varying shades of difference between Israel and the North American diaspora. What has kept them so identified and identifiable? This is an especially engaging question given some notable features of their interaction with the host cultures. In many ways they accom­ modated easily to the secular business and political structures of mod­ ern Quebec. On the other hand, being neither of European extraction (Ashkenazi) nor from the large North African (primarily Moroccan) Sephardic population, they have continuously felt themselves different

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from and marginalized within the prevailing Jewish communities of Montreal. In this context of modernization and of alienation from the Jewish community, they managed to maintain a very strong and coher­ ent communal definition as Iraqi Jews, which is otherwise remarkable given their comparatively small population. The Iraq­to­Montreal émigrés of the 1950s comprised more than three hundred Jewish families. They were, as noted, educated and mostly prosperous. Almost all were trilingual Arabic, English, and French speakers, but due to the peculiarities of Christian denomina­ tional divisions in the Quebec education system, they were required to attend the Protestant anglophone stream. In numerous interviews many Iraqis told me that they wanted to go to school in French. Today they laugh at the out­dated system that classified them as anglophone Protestants. They see the benefits of that historic regula­ tion since as English speakers, they managed to enter quite smoothly into the anglophone­centric economic life of Quebec at the time. Their cultural integration required a more nuanced perspective. They had clearly already been exposed to and had appreciated modernity in Iraq. Many men and women had university educations. Many were well travelled. The philosophical and political ideas of the West permeated their lives. Most were capitalists, some were Marxists, but they were all cosmopolitan. So, their escape to the West did not embrace as great an intellectual shift or cultural disengagement as was experienced by others. Nonetheless, since their understanding was rooted in Western Europe, the culture clash they experienced upon arrival in Quebec, while not paralyzing, was substantial and only gradually overcome. In more concrete arenas, the Iraqi commu­ nity made its way rather quickly. Many had come with some wealth while others used their established skills to climb the socioeconomic ladder.15 They became Canadians, fully integrated into local and even national society. Politically and linguistically they moved easily into the sphere of anglophone Montreal. Within the Jewish world of Montreal, they remained separate. In their homeland, their Iraqi Jewish identity was singular, enmeshed. However much they embraced secular Western ideas they remained Jews, by definition, for the simple reason that Arab nations were not

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secular. To be Jewish was an identity that was public and had political, social, economic, and legal ramifications. It was not a private matter or a matter of choice or a question of degree or simply a matter of religion. The Western construct of Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, or Reconstruction Jewry was strange to them. If forced to label them­ selves, they would say they were traditional Jews. Their own self­iden­ tity was of being members of the elite community of Babylonian Jews. In Montreal, they were not only largely invisible to the overwhelm­ ingly Ashkenazi Jewish population, they were alien. Whereas their Jewish practice was, again by definition, unassailable and self­evident in Iraq, it was contested in Montreal. They did not fit, but they had to find a home. They formed the Community of Sephardi Jews and, after a search, in the late 1960s they joined, en masse, the Spanish and Portuguese Corporation, Canada’s oldest synagogue. Although they were not observant Jews, not uniformly ritually practising, the synagogue’s Orthodox conservatism and formal British­style etiquette formed a bridge for their nostalgia and a location for their sense of tradition. The transition was complete. They were now Canadian Iraqi Jews with a separate association, which recently (2009) renamed itself the Association of Babylonian Jews.16 This alteration marks the tran­ sition to a uniquely Canadian situation. In Baghdad they had social clubs and synagogues. But synagogue membership was not a defining criterion. The already established Montreal Jewish community’s infra­ structure was based in part on synagogue membership. An immigrant group with an organization that joined a synagogue confirmed Jewish presence and ensured continuity in Canada. But what remained of their Iraqi heritage? Many life cycle events exhibit old Iraqi practices. For instance, during shiva (the seven days of mourning after a death) the traditional ring­like biscuit, kahqa,17 is still served with a little glass of tea after services every night, and appropriate foods are prepared for the end of the month of mourn­ ing. In Ashkenazi custom, nonrelatives bring food for the mourners during the week of shiva. But the Iraqi custom is to serve the guests every evening after services. Many other customs have not fared so well. Some birth rituals have changed or disappeared, such as shesha (the distribution of pouches of candied almonds and such, to wel­

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come a newborn). Weddings are mostly westernized, though some still hold traditional henna ceremonies (a premarital celebration of the bride – sometimes including the groom – during which henna paste is applied to the hands). Ritual celebrations of life cycle events are abbreviated and westernized. Holiday celebrations and rituals have also been transformed. The old ways no longer resonated. And, in any case, it is not clear that their Iraqi praxis had been based in knowledge of Jewish law. The practice of Judaism before 1950 in Iraq is not well documented, but some scholars noted that there was a decrease in synagogue presence and an increase in public secular participation.18 Many of the younger men who arrived in Montreal did not know Jewish prayers and had not been taught how to pray. In Iraq, they were unassuming even untrained “traditional” Jews and, in the transference to the new world, many of those traditions were modified, lost, or initially abandoned. Differences abound in the ways in which their ethnic and or religious identities are now practiced. One clear marker of these shifts is found in the foods served and enjoyed. Their foodways changed, and the continuities and adapta­ tions reveal a great deal about communal integration, memory pres­ ervation, identity maintenance, and religious transformations.

distinctiveness Before embarking on a description of the community and its food­ ways, it seems appropriate to discuss the absence of research on this small sector of the Jewish world. Initially, the simple factor of size explains much. The cohort under consideration here is demo­ graphically minute. In a population of approximately 100,000 Jews in Montreal (when Iraqis arrived in the 1950s), their numbers were inconsequential. Additionally, the overwhelming East European Ashkenazi presence in all of Canada, even in all of North America, coloured all cultural and religious descriptions of Jewishness. This Ashkenazi dominance was a problem in Israel also where the supposed ethnic ingathering of exiles proved elusive as all were expected to assume a European mode of existence. As much as the Zionist ideal was to create a “new Jew” distinct from the European

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stereotype, the actual model of culture was based on a preference for all things Ashkenazi. The Israeli Iraqis complained to me that they were given only one cup of rice for a month in the transition camps. Ashkenazis ate bread and potatoes and did not easily accommodate the rice requirements of the middle easterners.19 Thus, studies of Jews were coloured by this cultural and historic preference. Furthermore, there was a desire to present a uniform Jewishness to the world. All Jews were the same, weren’t they? There were even problems of nomenclature. Were Middle Eastern Jews to be called Sephardim? That term would be the binary oppo­ site of Ashkenazim. But that is a cultural or religious category that does not necessarily fit the disparate groups and their very separate histories. Today there are many arguments about the application of these distinct categories.20 In Montreal the presence of a very large Moroccan immigrant community overshadowed all the smaller Middle Eastern groups of Jews. The Moroccans became collectively known as the Sephardim.21 None other existed in the general com­ munity’s understanding. Further, when the Iraqis first arrived they saw themselves as Arab Jews but that terminology proved unaccept­ able in the contested space of Middle East politics. Overall, there has been a preference on the part of both communal leaders and scholars for the presentation of a Jewish ethnic homo­ geneity. Diversity, even given Canada’s so called multiculturalism, posed problems within the Jewish community. Diversity from one obvious ethnic group to another was acceptable but less so within the relatively small Jewish world of Montreal. Eventually some within both the scholarly and lay community did accept the Ashkenazi/ Sephardi divide. But it was applied to Europeans – all one group – and Moroccans. The presence of yet another ethnic/national/reli­ gious group within this minority was either too difficult to contem­ plate or deemed irrelevant since it was such a small demographic. However as studies of ethnicity and immigration advances, the com­ plexity of small groups within larger ones clearly adds substantially to academic understanding and analyses. Considering Géraldine Mossière’s chapter on Pentecostal immigrant churches we find interesting parallels. The Christian congregations she

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describes are multiethnic but seek some form of unity in the name of harmony or intercultural ingathering of newcomers.22 One can hear a similar debate in Montreal’s Jewish community as in the Pentecostal one, as Mossiere describes it. For the sake of “maintaining social cohe­ sion and a common sense of belonging,” the community seeks com­ monalities. Looking at the various ways these interconnections within groups play out shows how ethnicity is negotiated, to quote Mossière, “using an interculturalist rhetoric that is specific to Québécois’ views on vivre ensemble (living together).” For these reasons, the examination of this one small group of Iraqi Jews proves ideal in the context of a volume on religion in Quebec. It provides a different view of the process of ethnic identification and ritual revitalization of an immigrant community. Due to the demo­ graphic size and homogeneity of the group, certain tendencies are more apparent and consistent. Individual choices and practices turn out to be more discernible and telling as their reactions and reframing of identity become observable and even amplified. It is also signifi­ cant to note that the Iraqi community challenges the usual depictions of Jewish patterns of adaptation and integration. Most social scien­ tists assumed that modernity and secularism would bring the demise of religious practice, which would perforce establish a weakened sense of Jewish identity.23 In this case, the community maintained a very strong “Jewish” identity and a vibrant social cohesion despite the absence of or lessening of ritual praxis, or, to be more precise, secularism coincided with a continued traditionalism. Assimilation into Quebec culture did not correlate with a loss of ethnic confidence and identity. As with other chapters in this volume that explore the richly var­ ied situation in Quebec detailing religious change, in highlighting this small group we can see the process by which they managed the shift from traditional ritual practice to a selected praxis that performed an identity politic.24 Significantly, it offers a nuanced view of con­ text. In Iraq, they lived in a Muslim world where the dietary patterns were similar. The shift to Quebec with its Christian cultural environ­ ment challenged their commensality but not their identity. Rather, as we shall see, in cooking and eating t’beet they expressed themselves

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unambiguously, thereby enabling and embodying their complex somewhat secular religious/ethnic identity.

montreal iraqi jews and food My first concern in observing the community of Iraqi Jews was the role of gender. I wanted to know how women managed their families’ inte­ gration in Quebec. In due course, investigating the lives of Iraqi Jewish women in Montreal led me to food, as it appeared to offer a uniquely suitable access to their experiences in Baghdad, as well as in Canada. The women were most willing to talk about food and recipes, about past meals and present table culture. Talking about religion and/or rit­ ual did not, at that time, engage their interest. Thus, probing the ways in which Iraqi Jews speak of their past and celebrate their existence underscored the importance of food. It is a central mode of discourse and a symbol of all that is good and much that is lost. The frequent and familiar refrain of many immigrant populations focuses on remembered dishes and meals. “Remember the sambousak we used to eat!” exclaim the Iraqis. Food studies have shown that the foodways of a people fashion paths into memory and shape identity, forming a rich cultural heritage that calls for description and analy­ sis.25 In locating the role of culinary and commensal traditions in early Judaism, historian Jordan Rosenblum notes that, “the food on one’s plate serves as a social symbol (or sign) that communicates group asso­ ciation or disassociation.”26 After a number of years of research in the Iraqi community, including numerous interviews, group discussions, and participation in ceremonial feasts, it became apparent that men and women relate to each other, to their environment, and to their tra­ ditions via specific metonymic foods. I found that while women are the primary food givers, men are now also involved in food preparation.27 Significantly, the second generation of men interviewed was interested in taking up food preparation and participating in the preservation of recipes. Some of the men explicitly indicated that they did not want their traditions to be lost as their matriarchs passed away. This fear of loss signified a complex commitment to a cultural identity and pride in a unique heritage for both men and women.

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In terms of the issue of gender presence or absence in communal praxis, my chapter presents a contrast with that of Frederic Parent and Hélène Charron. Their investigation of religious practice in a rural parish observed a certain level of feminization taking place especially with the new ritual of adace. The increased presence of female practi­ tioners in religious praxis is an observed and studied phenomenon in contemporary North America. Add to that the impact of current theo­ ries on domestication of religion, we might expect to find in my study related to food and identity, a clear manifestation of feminization. But as I faced the t’beet project, I realized that there was no “feminization” of the Iraqi identity even though the focus was food and identity. The men were involved in and concerned with the need to conserve their heritage. Men and women were “in the kitchen” together. The men still retain dominance in synagogue ritual, but both men and women value and use food conventions to construct their Iraqi Jewish identity. Food defines and reflects much of a community’s self­understand­ ing and experience. Founder of the slow food movement Carlo Petrini once said, “Taste is like an umbilical cord,” it takes you back home.28 When I quoted this to a focus group of Iraqi Jews, they all smiled in recognition of the truth of the statement. They all felt the nostalgic tie that bound them, through food, to some wonderful sense of “home.” The men and women equally appreciated the claim food exerted on their ties to their mothers and to the homes of their memories, which they so longed for. This is very much in keeping with the findings of anthropologist Claude Fischler: Food is central to our sense of identity. The way any given human group eats helps it assert its diversity, hierarchy and organization, but also, at the same time, both its oneness and the otherness of whoever eats differently. Food is also central to indi­ vidual identity, in that any given human individual is constructed, biologically, psychologically and socially by the foods he/she chooses to incorporate.29 It follows, then, that studying the culinary and commensal aspects of food situations enhances an understanding of both individual and

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communal process of memory and identity formation. The patterns that emerge form the basis of identity practices and yields a clearer understanding of ethnic and religious cultural adaptations (some­ times called accommodations). Food is, quite literally, a form of communication. It can, as Fischler says, proclaim “otherness.” For example, Ashkenazis declared that one had to eat gefilte fish if one were a real Jew; Iraqi Jews knew they were Jewish, but they were “other”: they did not like or eat gefilte fish.30 It can also signal “oneness.” Eating special Iraqi dishes, eating them together – in private family gatherings and larger social meetings – meant that they were still Iraqi, still living their heritage, passing it on to their children. Ingesting was visceral and real, the embodying and hence embedding of a valued tradition. Eating this food was symbolic of holding on to their past and transferring it to the present, even to the future. There were changes made, but they were transformations that were necessitated by immigration, and all hoped that they would take root in the new country and survive somehow. The food still tasted good. Even though they concurred that some things could never taste the same – “The water here is not as good as there,” or the flour or the oil – it was good to eat, and even important to eat, Iraqi. Many immigrant communities quickly lose their language of ori­ gin, but food patterns, though often transformed, retain distinctively ethnic configurations. Food offers us more than mere nostalgia: food contains the language of memory – it is fully embodied. Foodstuff provides us with a sensory presence so that memory stimulation is not of the mind alone. Eating and then remembering “mama’s food” bridges the past and the present, providing a link to the past and the future. As specific foods are ingested, the eater partakes of diverse symbolism instantly and without effort. In an early article, anthropol­ ogist Joelle Bahloul articulated the various ways that food produced links for Algerian Jews with their Muslim neighbours, sometimes extricating their ritual eating from Islamic patterns and at other times connecting them.31 The practice of eating evocative foods is therefore perceived to have social and ontological ramifications for both indi­ vidual and group identity.32 Renowned food historian Sidney Mintz noted that “on many occasions, people define themselves with food;

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at the same time, food consistently redefines them.”33 Thus focus­ ing on food enables a dual perspective, examining how food aids in maintaining past forms of identity and promoting new adaptations of that very same identity. While looking at food preparation as marks of familial and ritual centrality, I found indications of rupture and reconciliation within the Iraqi community. I caught a glimpse of the connection of genera­ tions, as food recipes were lost and reclaimed, discussed and altered. Mostly, I saw the ways in which a community of men and women reinvented themselves while maintaining their sense of themselves individually and communally as Iraqi Jews. In order to highlight the shifts and alterations taking place in the course of their adaptation to the environment of an Ashkenazi/Sephardi Jewish Montreal within a secular Quebec,34 I offer a vignette portraying a radical rupture and a short description of a process of retention or reconstruction. In practical terms, this chapter fits within the parameters of a short eth­ nographic description of lived religion although the community itself is not practising religion in the classical sense of halakhic Judaism, as will become evident in the example below. Nonetheless they do exhibit and proclaim a strong attachment to a Jewish identity within Quebec society. The following description reveals the diversity found even within a small community while arguing against any homoge­ neous designation of Judaism.

“Ruptures” There are many stories of the sweeping rift that befell the Jews of the Middle East when they were forced to leave. Life was disoriented and destabilized in the most basic of ways. Many women told (com­ plained to) me: “I didn’t learn anything from my mother. I learned the most from my father” – yet, much of their lives in Canada revolved around their management of food, which they had not learned from their fathers. This contention addresses their own sense of loss, of inadequacy and of deprivation arising out of their dispossession. They came to Montreal newly married or with young families; they had husbands and children to feed and no idea how to go about it.

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They had not learned to cook at Mama’s knees. No one had prepared them for cooking rice! To this day, many seem to regret not learning from Mama. Significantly, these women who blamed their mothers did not even fully appreciate their loss. They had suffered a triple rupture: a disruption in the transmission of traditions, a loss of their privi­ leged social status, and a dislocation of memory. They presupposed a world – a life of mother­daughter kitchen interactions – that never was. In Baghdad, mothers did not necessarily teach their daughters. Firstly, most women from this upper class of society did not cook themselves. They had cooks, poor Jews, or Arabs that they trained and directed. Most of the older generation of women only began to do hands­on cooking when they eventually joined their children in Canada. Moreover, it appears that, most frequently, mothers­in­ law taught daughters­in­law, in order to guarantee that their sons/ husbands had good food! The mother­daughter interaction so bela­ boured did not focus on food. And cooking did not necessarily take place in an indoor kitchen. Thus, place and memory were totally transposed and reinvented. The rupture in the transmission of traditions I mentioned is espe­ cially salient, as it relates to Iraqi Jewish practice in Iraq. They were traditional Jews; that is, at least in the home, correct Jewish prac­ tice was received practice: it was not book learning; it was a way of life. “And,” as Haym Soloveitchik comments in his masterful study of Jewish traditional communities facing modernity, “ a way of life is not learned but rather absorbed. Its transmission is mimetic, imbibed from parents and friends, and patterned on conduct reg­ ularly observed in home and street, synagogue and school.”35 The younger women especially had not been trained as ritual experts by their mothers. They had left home quickly, without due preparation. Theirs was not a sense of culinary confidence or ritual expertise but of ignorance and of impossibly difficult family demands. Not only were they unprepared, they were immediately confronted with situations beyond their experience. First, they found themselves in a rich secular society in which food choices abounded. Second, the traditions of the local Ashkenazis had developed on different

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lines than theirs. In fact, according to Soloveitchik, in the Ashkenazi world the “dual tradition of the intellectual and the mimetic, law as taught and law as practiced, which stretched back for centuries,” had already broken down and “[e]stablished practice [could] no lon­ ger hold its own against the demands of the written word.”36 Even if these young women had had a firmer grasp of their traditions, that would not have granted them legitimacy in the Jewish world of Montreal. In that world, they were ritually illiterate. Their absorp­ tion of the tradition had been blocked. Part of this matrix of rupture is captured in a unique story I partic­ ipated in about kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws. For many Iraqi Jews keeping kosher was a pattern of eating and shopping in the right loca­ tion, something you did without full understanding of ritual specif­ ics or religious commitment. Their shopping and eating patterns were self­evident: the way things were.37 When they arrived in Montreal there was a lack of knowledge and information. The local food store chain – Steinberg’s – was known to be Jewish, so shopping there seemed natural. But the food was unfamiliar and not necessarily kosher. The young women did not fully appreciate these subtle foodways. They were not entirely sure about kashrut, remembering it as food bought from a Jewish butcher. Bread on the other hand came from the Arab bakers. The separation of meat and milk was not an issue since dairy was not a staple of their diet. People variously remembered a single set of dishes for both categories of food, and not everyone recalled that, of that one set, some dishes were put aside for dairy. In Iraq, eating kosher was simple, and their Moslem neighbours’ eating habits fol­ lowed many similar patterns. What “kosher” was here, what its defi­ nition was, remained an enigma. So they bought what was available in Montreal in a Jewish store. The loss of kashrut was not felt as a catastrophe.38 Some, of course, did keep a kosher kitchen but not the majority. Daughters had had no guidance and only later did some of them seek out and reestablish that pattern. The following story is an admittedly extreme example of rupture, as most Iraqi women knew some elements of kashrut. Yet the profile is familiar and applies to a systemic problem for a community trauma­ tized by exile. In the mid 1980s, a respected Iraqi family, one whose

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parents might well have hosted the rabbis of Baghdad, wanted to invite their non­Iraqi Montreal rabbi for a meal. It was very import­ ant to them to show their gratitude to him, behave properly, and be proper hosts. For this Orthodox rabbi, eating in their home was problematic since they admittedly were not kosher. Yet, he agreed on condition that they buy everything from a specific kosher store. He would eat only the food prepared there and served cold on paper plates. His ritual requirements were alien to them, but they wished to honour him properly. In fact, they were grateful that he was so will­ ing to allow them the role of grand hosts, as their parents had per­ formed in the old days. The table was beautifully laid out with all the dishes from this kosher store – sliced beef, salads, and sliced cheeses! They had followed his instructions to the letter and bought every item only in that one store. Inconceivable to him, they did not know that meat and milk could not be served or eaten together. Faced with a disaster, they were embarrassed, but also explained that they were never taught anything about Judaism. Interestingly, this rupture had already begun in Iraq. They had left before their Jewish education was complete, or their education was truncated as public performances of Judaism became difficult, and Jewish life became more restricted. Many were educated, but some were never fully educated nor had they participated in, the rituals of the community. Some women stopped going to synagogue for the High Holidays. Some males did not have a bar mitzvah. Some men complained their fathers never taught them how to lead a Passover Seder. These lapses are related to some aspects of modernity but most specifically relate to the particular political history of the region. The influence of Nazism and the local fear of Zionism combined to make expressions of Jewish life dangerous. Let me be clear: most women today do use food in the proper ritual framework.39 Although many women no longer keep kosher kitch­ ens, the kahqa are still served after funerals. In other words, their rit­ ual knowledge has reasserted itself in specific arenas and many have learned the necessary kitchen skills. Still, coming to a new country entailed a loss of tradition, a religious and ritual praxis abandoned. The rupture was not complete, but it was significant and widespread.

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Recapture However, the transformative process is complex, never a one­way street. Some alterations emerge as people try to preserve a lost heri­ tage. The new contours of these rituals of identity often resemble the old configurations, but a detailed examination reveals shifts and new locations of the form. After they had settled into Canada and achieved financial security, some turned to their Iraqi heritage in an effort to recapture old customs and reestablish them in Montreal. There was a conscious effort to keep the heritage alive. Some extended families were reunited, while others were not. By the 1970s, trips to London and vacations together in Florida helped reinforce the sense of kin­ ship and community. Ritual praxis was reinstated. In this context, Iraqi food became the easy vehicle for nostalgia and retention. The food culture of North America might have been the staple diet of all the families, but Iraqi foods were served both daily and on spe­ cial occasions, public and private. Most frequently, if Iraqi food was served the event was considered significant. In a study of the centrality of rice to the formulation of Japanese identity, anthropologist Emiko Ohnuki­Tierney made the following statement: The power of food as a symbol of self­identity derives from the particular nature of the symbolic process involved. An important food as a metaphor of a social group involves two interlocking dimensions. First, each member of the social group consumes the food, which becomes part of his or her body. The important food becomes embodied in each individual. It operates as a metonym for being part of the self. Second, the food is consumed by indi­ vidual members of the social group who eat the food together.40 While, for Iraqi Montrealers, this might be applied to the whole of Iraqi food, Ohnuki­Tierny is speaking of “an important food.” Over time, a particular food did emerge as an exceptionally potent trans­ mitter of identity for this immigrant community.

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t’beet 41 One specific class of food had its place and meaning reassigned and became important as a symbol of Iraqi identity, so much so that we can see it as an iconic food without which one could not claim Iraqi Jewish status today. That food, known as t’beet, was the quintessen­ tial Sabbath food of the Jews of Iraq. As noted above, all known Jewish cultures developed a special Sabbath food, a stew of sorts that could be put in an oven on Friday and eaten on Saturday after services. While there are many words used to describe this item, it is known mostly as cholent.42 This term reflects the Ashkenazi culture in which the stew consisted of beans, potatoes, bones, and sometimes meat. The original designation from Spain is hamin.43 That word recalls the warmth of the item for a feast on a day when it was forbidden to cook. It is considered the Jewish dish par excellence, so much so that “[d]uring the Spanish Inquisition, the most incriminating dish connoting a retention of Judaism was hamin/adafina.”44 T’beet, the Iraqi version, does not contain beans or potatoes or even beef. Rather, as befitting a Middle Eastern dish, the main ingredients are rice and chicken. The manner of preparation and even of eating differs from the European model. It is also quite distinct from the dafina of Moroccan or Algerian Jews.45 In Iraq, preparation was quite intensive, requiring skill and dexter­ ity. It was not a lowly dish; it was a tour de force. Either the chicken was deboned and stuffed, or the skin was removed whole and then stuffed. When interviewed, many Montreal Iraqis recalled the won­ ders of this Sabbath dish. They did not dwell on the Sabbath itself, on the day’s change of pace, peaceful ways, or familial attention. Rather, t’beet was the item of discussion. Almost all the talk focused on this dish as the quintessential Sabbath noon meal. In some households, t’beet was not just reserved for the Saturday noon meal; it formed the basis of two other meals as well. In a private discussion, a friend described the pattern of eating for the whole cycle: We ate the liquid part as soup for Friday night’s meal. Then the eggs were eaten for breakfast. And finally we had the chicken

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stuffed with rice, the main part of the t’beet that had been baking in the special pot all night, that we had for lunch after the men came home from synagogue. This was not a universal practice, but later others did confirm this detailed description.46 When the Iraqi Jews first came to Montreal, the women did not have the skills to make t’beet. The recipes were vague and they could not find the correct spices. They could not phone home. Letters were exchanged, but the mail was slow and haphazard. Yet, even in the early stages of integration into Quebec, they longed for the t’beet of home. Their memories of a house filled with the smell of t’beet cooking propelled some women to persist and learn how to make the dish; others then learned from them. But the environment dictated some important shifts. In Montreal many Iraqi Jews became less ritually observant. These Iraqi Jews did not become less Jewish, nor did they abandon treasured traditions, but they did accept a life pattern that either eliminated many Jewish rituals or shifted their application, focus, and location. Remarkably, the community as a whole joined one Orthodox synagogue. They became more secular but not atheis­ tic. Conscious of their unique Jewish and ethnic background, they maintained strong group cohesion and focused on only certain elements of praxis. They considered themselves proud traditional but not “religious” Jews. In this environment, the Sabbath was not necessarily a day of rest and synagogue attendance for the men. Women did not spend all of Friday preparing t’beet. Families did not sit down to a large noon meal on Saturday. Life had changed. Changes in t’beet patterns occurred side by side with communal integration. Initially, t’beet moved to Friday night as the Sabbath food. Thus, while its original purpose had been to accommodate Sabbath rules and serve as the hot meal for Saturday, in Montreal it became the special food of Friday family night. Following the patterns of their neighbours, they looked upon Saturday as a day for secular activities, for the most part. But Friday night was to remain a special Jewish night, not so much as a Sabbath with all its rules and regulations but as

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a dedicated family time. Most Montreal Jews reserved this Friday night part of the Sabbath to gather the family together for a family meal. For the Iraqis, t’beet became the celebrated epicentre of this domes­ tic arrangement. Preparation began Friday morning and there was no overnight process. The whole community did not keep Friday night dinner, but it did become the pattern for many. Families liked it and so the tradition was born. Some of the first generation Iraqi women made fun of those who served t’beet on Friday night: “Look at them. They don’t even know when to serve it.”47 Yet, they too acknowledged the usefulness of the Friday night ritual. They even ardently participated in this transformed practice. One woman stated that she initially began serving t’beet Friday nights when her daughter reached marriageable age. She invited single men to dinner Friday night to meet and socialize. In fact, that is how her daughter met her husband. This meal of special Iraqi food became the family tradition. Years later I videotaped them at their Friday night family meal. The number of teenage grandchildren, all of whom seemed to be enjoying themselves, impressed me. I asked them why they were not out in the city partying with their friends. They replied quickly and unanimously: “Nana is cooking. Are you kidding?” “When she cooks Friday night dinner, why would I go elsewhere?” “My friends will be there another night. Tonight we eat t’beet!” One went on to tell me that his mother could not really cook, she did not know how to make Iraqi dishes like t’beet –“that was real food.”48 The sense of family togetherness was omnipresent and so was their special pride in being Iraqi Jews. In the interview with all the members, it was clear that love of the food embraces them within their family and culture. Discussions with other members of the community revealed the same sense of intergenerational links that this food embodies and fosters. Significantly, while our attention is still on the food itself, it remains in this setting as a Sabbath food. At this point, t’beet has shifted in its preparation and commensal setting, but it has not lost its specialized Sabbath context. With the passage of time, two new factors affected t’beet’s pres­ ence and usage. The first was that the next generation decided to learn how to cook the dish and so its popularity increased, as did

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certain timesaving shortcuts. No longer cooked overnight, the meal was prepared in one pot quickly. There are currently various popular ways of cooking t’beet: different spices, recipes, and even YouTube presentations with diverse guidelines and instructions. The Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue, where the Montreal Iraqi community comprises one of five diverse ethnic groups, held a Friday night dinner that was prepared by the fourth generation. It was hailed as a great success – an Iraqi night. The young men cooked; they made t’beet. People could not stop talking about it: its taste, spices, recipe, and, of course, that the “boys” made it. For this generation, cooking and eating the t’beet revitalized their love of Iraqi food; it regener­ ated their strong sense of themselves as Iraqi Jews and rewove their ties to each other. It established new experiences upon which to build the memory base of a rich heritage in Canada. Most importantly, it gave them two new qualities. The cooks were now known as chefs, knowledgeable as Iraqi cooks, interested in preserving and serving recipes not just in eating. And, significantly, it introduced a new gen­ der characteristic to this old community. Men could now enter the kitchen. Men could cook and be involved with women in ways not experienced before. The old Iraqi ways were worth saving but in new ways and by new people. And it still tasted good. That Friday night no one mocked, even though it was Friday night and not the noon meal. It was “Shabbath”49 and they were all “being Iraqi,” showing the other groups how good it is to be Iraqi. Their pride was palpable, aided by the tasty food. Seeing these young peo­ ple embracing t’beet confirmed for them that their traditions and identity would survive. The next generation was palpably invested. The second factor in t’beet’s reframing is related to the desire of the Iraqi Jewish community to publicly exhibit and express their identity. This aspiration only recently permeated the Iraqi commu­ nity.50 It is noteworthy that previously the members had been com­ mitted to privacy and quiet diplomacy. They did not choose public demonstrations or open showcases in any manner, but the tides and generations had changed. The world was at war with Iraq, yet they were still proud Iraqi Jews and they needed some way to acknowl­ edge their rich heritage.

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As Iraqis continued to hold public meetings and events for the whole synagogue community, the question of what food to serve arose. T’beet easily became the food most desirable for an Iraqi Jewish public event, no matter that the Sabbath was nowhere in sight. People seemed to feel, “If we meet on a Wednesday [Monday, Tuesday ...] night as the community of Iraqi Jews, then we must eat t’beet.”51 Some of the elders still smile at the silly people who serve t’beet in the middle of the week. Some ridicule the current practice but most love eating it and speak of that unique sense of Iraqi pride engulfed in the layers of rice and chicken. T’beet was not reserved for synagogue get­togethers; it was the meal of choice for any special family gathering or social event. Its meaning had shifted and it had become secularized. Even within the synagogue setting, eating t’beet was not overburdened with religious significance. Certainly, it was religiously inflected – they were gath­ ered in a synagogue, after all, and the cooking did have to be kosher. The meaning of “synagogue,” however, had also shifted. In Iraq, the synagogue was almost exclusively a place for religion, ritual, and Jewish learning, not one for secular activities. In Montreal, the syn­ agogue had taken on some of the functions of the social clubs that the immigrant generation had formed in Baghdad. Certainly, they still congregated in the synagogue to celebrate life cycle events and holy days; they also came to play cards, attend lectures and book clubs, listen to concerts, and organize museum tours. It wasn’t the only, or even the most important, venue for their secular lives, but it was as much a community centre as a religious institution. When Iraqis gathered to eat and serve t’beet in the synagogue, it was not a religious act, it was a communal social ritual. Thus, t’beet shifted from the iconic Sabbath food to the iconic Iraqi food. No longer necessary for a warm meal on Sabbath, it could now be served on Sunday or any day when these immigrant Jews felt the need to feel Iraqi. Iraqi Jewish identity had shifted from being the immutable consequence of being traditional Jews living in a non­ secular Moslem country, to a matter of cultural choice. And they chose, and they expressed that choice in the foods they ate. In a sense, the food traditions became the defining feature of the Iraqi Jewish

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community, particularly t’beet. In Iraq the dish signified Sabbath as well as symbolizing Jewishness; in Montreal, in this secular diaspora, eating this unique dish distinguished the community and marked the person as an Iraqi Jew. Consequently, whenever they gather as a com­ munity, or whenever they wish to indicate the importance of a family event, they need to eat the dish. It gives them a special identity. The reasoning seems quite clear if unstated: T’beet is unique and ingest­ ing it makes one equally unique. This identity practice functions for those who grew up in Baghdad as well as for those who never lived there. Eating special Iraqi Jewish dishes keeps alive a connection to a remembered paradise – not to the real Baghdad, to which no one in this community has any desire to return. They do not even wish to visit it. But recalling Baghdad main­ tains a tangible connection to a dream and a heritage. Intriguingly, for those who were not born there, eating the food establishes a link to the imagined life of an Iraqi Jew. Somehow eating the right food concretizes the lived experience of Baghdad, thereby establishing one’s legitimate credentials as an Iraqi Jew. Anthropological studies of culinary and commensal practices show that specific foods and foodways act to preserve important tradi­ tions of specific communities. While not necessarily in the realm of religious ritual, these traditions become suffused with the nostal­ gia of memory and of taste. In some cultures the foods are remem­ brances through which ritual is preserved. A recent study traced how the Moroccan ritual of mimouna transferred to Montreal.52 Unlike the shifts of t’beet, the special ceremony retained its place in the holi­ day as the concluding ritual of Passover. It is probable that this prac­ tice was established in Morocco as a way to thank one’s non­Jewish neighbours who were returning the flour and foods they had stored for the Jews during Passover. With the move to Montreal, the ritual remained, but its meaning shifted. Offering the special crepes known as moufleta became a way of introducing non­Moroccan Jews to (the sweet and tasty) Moroccan Jewish traditions. In Montreal, one was not surrounded by Muslims; one was floating in a sea of cultural and religious identities. One did not need to thank and keep friendly lines of communication open. One needed to differentiate oneself and edu­

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cate the Ashkenazi Jewish community about the unique rituals of the Moroccan community. The intended recipients changed, but the ritual remained as a way of preserving, proclaiming, and sharing a heritage. In our case, t’beet was divorced from the actual ritual of the Sabbath tradition. Foodways, however, are pliable and reciprocal movements are possible. In a fascinating twist of events, t’beet has come back to the synagogue, with controversy. As noted previously, the community qua community joined one synagogue, the Spanish and Portuguese congregation of Montreal. In the last decade, a light meal has been served every Saturday after services. (It must be noted that this meal is intended to be minor, a time for the population to socialize. People stand and eat, walking and talking. This synagogue practice is known all over the Jewish world and is called the kiddush.) At first the only hot dish was dafina, the Moroccan “cholent.” People complained. T’beet was added to the menu. Eventually, due to cost concerns t’beet was dropped from the menu. After serious accusations of prejudice and exclusion were uttered, the dish was again included. While still a dish of rice and chicken, its resemblance to the t’beet of Baghdad is distant. But it is being served at the old traditional time, related to Shabbath, and supposedly cooked all night. It is now a more conve­ niently made rice dish with some pieces of chicken. But it is named t’beet, and the Iraqi members of the synagogue feel their tradition and identity is preserved in the context of the other diverse Jewish groups and their cholents. They again are experiencing this culinary item as a mark of Iraqi­ness within a non­Iraqi Jewish world. Thus the experience was one of culinary identity wherein the food, in this case t’beet, enabled a very specific identity to be differentiated from a broadly Jewish, Hasidic, Moroccan Jewish, or Ashkenazi identity. T’beet was Iraqi Jewish, uniquely their own. What more does t’beet signify or symbolize? For many in the com­ munity it represents home, good food, good taste, tastefulness, and plenty. It especially denotes their sense of hospitality, encompassing a way of life filled with sociability, cordiality, and friendship. For so many of the people with whom I spoke, family – extended family – is at the centre of their social life, and eating t’beet together cements that relationship. They wish to continue with this pattern of eating

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and sharing that signifies a life of ease, good living, and wealth. In a very real sense t’beet extends their sense of community. It takes them back, not to Iraq, but to the paradisiacal “land between the two riv­ ers.” And it enhances their modern secular lives, giving them a way of being Iraqi Jews without pious ritual and religion, without Shabbath. Yet they are keenly aware that without Shabbath there would be no t’beet. They are, moreover, keenly aware that their Jewishness is intri­ cately linked to the religion of their ancestors, and, while they will not keep all the rituals, they are proud of being Jewish, Iraqi Jewish. Eating together, this iconic food not only revitalizes a love of Iraqi food, it reestablishes a strong sense of the Iraqi Jewish community. Eating together, this particular dish weaves a fabric of communal and familial cohesion. It also creates new networks and opportunities upon which to build the memory base of a rich heritage in Canada. The old Iraqi ways were worth saving but in new ways and by new people. And it all tastes so good.

conclusion In the process of emigration and reintegration, many aspects of life in Baghdad were appropriated, absorbed, shifted, remembered, and reinvented. In an attempt to maintain an Iraqi Jewish identity, the Iraqi Jewish community of Montreal created distinct patterns of identifica­ tion and integration. It is increasingly evident that while moderniza­ tion began for this community in Iraq, the North American adaptation required a reworking of their system. As they fully adapted to life in Montreal, shifts in identity and practice indicate a complexity of ethnic distinctions and religious affiliations. Eating one particular iconic food enabled both the embodying of a heritage and the embracing of a new social reality. Given the rupture of their traditional family patterns, compar­ ing styles of food preparation and feast location yielded interesting insights into the immigrant experience. Many complained that they were totally unprepared for life in a new country. Arrival in Montreal created problems of isolation and assimilation. In their attempts to sustain and reconstruct their family patterns in a new country, Iraqi

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food became a central element of their interaction, expertise, and control. Food constantly distinguished this community from other Jewish communities. Food is one of the best vehicles for that nos­ talgic walk down memory lane. It enables a taste of home for those seeking a backward glance at a bygone era. Indeed, it has created a secure home for the memories, aspirations, and pride of the multiple generations of Iraqis that share in its preparation and consumption. Its full­bodied presence shifts one to a longed for past while retaining a modern presence in a vibrant social setting. By cooking and ingest­ ing t’beet, this group of immigrants expresses themselves as ethni­ cally distinct, Jewishly identified, and communally committed.

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appendix a: t’beet recipe This recipe is a digest of diverse published recipes and discussions with some of the Iraqi cooks in the Montreal community. Thus the amounts are suggestions and can vary depending on taste and timing. T’beet was usually prepared on Friday and placed in a low oven or fire until Saturday noon meal. Some say the name comes from the Arabic tabayit, meaning to stay overnight. ingredients 1 chicken whole 1 lemon 6 eggs 2 cups rice 4 tbs chicken fat or olive oil 4 cups boiling water or chicken consommé 2 tbs tomato paste 1 onion 2 tomatoes 2 tbs baharat* salt & pepper to taste directions · Wash and dry chicken. Rub with lemon. · Stuff chicken with ¼ cup of rice mixed with 1 chopped tomato, 1 tbs tomato paste, 1 tbs olive oil, ½ cup chicken consommé (optional), 1 tbs baharat. · Close the opening with skewers or sew. Some skilled chefs skin the chicken first and then stuff the skin and the chicken too. · Put chicken in heavy pot on the stovetop and brown on both sides, allowing juices to flow out. · With the chicken in the centre of the roaster, add the water or consommé, tomato paste, rice and baharat. · Put the raw eggs on top of the rice, half in half out. They will turn brown.

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· Cook at 350f for one hour. Leave it in a slow oven (250f) overnight or for 2–3 hours. If you have cooked the chicken and rice for a few hours a hard crust might form and you can carefully turn it out on to a platter. Crusty rice is considered a delicacy. Not burning it is a skill! Some people use rose petals in the stuffing rice. Some add garlic and mint. Many rinse and soak the rice first. *Baharat is a mix of spices in many Iraqi dishes. Quantities vary but include one tbs each of cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, turmeric, and black pepper. And one tsp each of allspice, and nutmeg or cloves. It can be mixed and kept.

Section Two Publics and Places

5 Place Making and People Gathering at Rural Wayside Crosses Hillary Kaell J’imagine que quelqu’un d’une autre religion, dans un autre pays, qui n’a jamais entendu parler de la croix – c’est quand même deux morceaux qui s’entrecroisent – peut­être que ça ne lui fait rien. Mais pour moi, ça a une charge émotive, une charge spirituelle très grande. I imagine that someone from another religion, in another coun­ try, who had never heard of the cross – after all, it’s two pieces of wood that intersect – maybe it wouldn’t make them feel anything. But for me, it has an emotional charge, a very great spiritual charge. Raymonde Proulx, 62, Ste­Gertrude­Manneville

27 May 2014 Highway 117, near Saint-Jovite, Quebec The town of Saint­Jovite is nestled in the Laurentian mountains near Mont­Tremblant ski resort. Beyond the tourist hub, there are rolling hills covered in pines, neatly kept bungalows and small fam­ ily farms interconnected by rangs (rural roads). Jean­Marc, a retired teacher, and I head back to his house to share a quick dinner with his wife, Rollande, before we hurry to the car. We’re due at the way­ side cross by seven. A few minutes beyond town we pull up behind a line of parked cars along the highway and are greeted warmly

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figure 5.1 The Saint­Jovite cross where Jean­Marc’s group gathered to pray. The sign at its base has the Knights of Columbus logo and reads, “N’oubliez pas que je vous aime!” (Do not forget that I love you!). Photographed in May 2014 by Jacques Harvey.

by neighbours and friends clustered under umbrellas, hoods pulled against the drizzling rain. The ground squishes underfoot as we make our way to the cross. Each Tuesday during May, the mois de Marie (month of Mary), the group assembles at one of the local crosses to pray. The St­Jovite crosses are just a few of more than 2,500 crosses in rural Quebec. The one we are gathered at tonight, like all wayside crosses, is about fifteen feet tall and planted along the side of the road. It is on private property; others are on public land. The only requirement, say cross caretakers, is that it must be visible to passersby. Some crosses are simple; others have elaborately carved instruments of the Passion. This one is adorned with a statue of Jesus, bloodied on the crucifix. The group is proud of this corpus – few wayside crosses have one, especially as lifelike as this. It was first made by a man a few towns

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over who did plaster work with moulds made from rubber tires. “A real artist!” someone tells me appreciatively. Once our group numbers about twenty­five – slightly more men than women, the average age about sixty­five – Jean­Marc calls us to order. We gather in a semicircle facing the cross, our backs to the cars whizzing by. Most participants are Chevaliers de Colomb (Knights of Columbus) and their wives. Members of this Catholic lay frater­ nity look after hundreds of wayside crosses around the province, including six in St­Jovite. This chapter also invited their aumonier, a jovial pastor from Bénin, who begins by leading us in a moment of silent prayer. Then one man starts, “Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces ...” We respond, “Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous pécheurs, maintenant et à l’heure de notre mort. Amen.” People hold rosary beads loosely between their fingers, eyes fixed on the cross or cast on the ground. For thirty minutes we pray the rosary, with dif­ ferent people taking the lead. The sonorous voices mix with the pit­ ter­patter of rain on our umbrellas and the swoosh of tires speeding past. We end our prayers with a song: C’est le mois de Marie C’est le mois le plus beau À la Vierge chérie Disons un chant nouveau.

It’s the month of Mary It’s the most beautiful month To the dear Virgin Let us sing a new song.1

The voices fall silent and there is a pause before our circle breaks up as people make a beeline out of the rain. Jean­Marc stops some men to talk about the cross they are meeting at next week, the last one of the season. It’s on a ridge by the highway, partially obscured by new trees. “It’s a shame,” says Jean­Marc for my benefit. “It’s a beautiful cross, illuminated with lights donated by a Chevalier who runs an electrical company.” Because it is on public land, they con­ tacted the Ministry of Forestry for permission to cut them down. (“Sure, but don’t go crazy,” the ministry representative responded.) They agree to get it done tomorrow, and we wave good night, dis­ persing back to our cars as dusk descends.

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place making and people gathering Wayside crosses originated in medieval Europe, where they lined roadways to pilgrimage sites and provided protection for trav­ ellers. In Quebec, similar crosses were erected in the 1740s along the Chemin du Roy between Montreal and Quebec. The handmade wooden crosses that typify croix de chemin today likely date to the mid­nineteenth century, with a construction high point from the 1880s to 1950s, a period defined more generally by Catholic devo­ tionalism. Wayside crosses were built to mark or commemorate an event, by rang neighbours if the parish church was too far for regular visits, or in order to fulfill vows and ensure future protection against natural scourges and untimely death. Although priests sometimes encouraged their construction, creating wayside crosses has always been a voluntary lay practice.2 Despite scholars’ dire predictions in the 1920s and again in the 1970s, the advent of modernity has not felled the crosses. Based on a survey I directed of nearly two hundred parishes across the province, about 80 per cent of crosses catalogued in the 1970s remain.3 Most of their upkeep is provided privately by local people who reside in rural communities with populations of between 150 and 2,000. Following the broad survey, I conducted in­depth interviews and fieldwork with fifty caretakers. Of these, 98 per cent identified as “believing” Catholics; 86 per cent were practising, meaning they attend Mass at least once a month.4 This level of practice is highly atypical for Quebec as a whole, even in their villages. However, Catholicism in rural Quebec does look different than its urban counterpart: nearly everyone attends church for Christmas, Easter, and life cycle rituals. Parish committees organize popular social events, like picnics and concerts. Most caretakers’ grand­ children receive some Christian schooling, usually catechism class.5 Caretakers view wayside crosses as a tangible connection to the past. This is increasingly the case. Before the 1970s, 27 per cent of crosses replaced older ones on the same site; today it is 79 per cent.6 Yet caretakers also view their crosses as changing with the times. They readily use new materials, such as aluminum, steel, or car paint. Builders tend to favour simple designs over the ornate aesthetics of

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figure 5.2 Today the most common cross is white with a stylized heart, like this one in Saint­Frédéric village. It also has a niche containing a devotional statue of Mary and child. Photographed in 2014 by Jacques Harvey.

the past.7 They echo Catholic clergy during the Quiet Revolution, dismissing earlier vows for protection as “peasants’ superstitions.” Communal prayers are also viewed with some ambivalence, since they seem to typify the obligatory social practices that characterized pre­1960s Québécois Catholicism.8 This chapter explores these religious entanglements by focusing on two components of contemporary wayside cross devotionalism: the production of sacred space and the role of communal rituals. Both aspects speak to what philosopher Edward Casey, based on Heidegger, suggests is an essential trait of place: namely, places gather. To be “emplaced” is to be in a configurative complex of things, including natural elements, objects, people, histories, memories, and even words

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or prayers. The power of place, writes Casey, “consists in gathering these lives and things, each with its own space and time, into one arena of common engagement.”9 Paying close attention to the dynamic inter­ action across this landscape, I ask how wayside crosses carve out cer­ tain kinds of social intimacy and collective memory in the context of political, religious, economic, and physical changes in rural Quebec.

retelling religion in rural quebec Studies of religion in North America largely focus on urban or subur­ ban places.10 In Quebec, the assumed model reflects many urbanites’ experience of sudden religious dislocation in the 1960s. Cross caretak­ ers, on the other hand, describe a series of incremental changes begin­ ning in the 1970s and 1980s that became more fully apparent to them only in the 1990s. Further, the major themes in Québécois scholarship on religion, such as immigrant assimilation, pluralism, atheism, and new religious movements, rarely reflect key issues in caretakers’ lives. Assuming an urban subject, even those studies that critique the secu­ larization thesis tend to do so by highlighting “ethnic” religion among urban immigrants, while asserting that, “ethnic French­Canadian Catholicism disappeared a number of decades ago.”11 By contrast, ethnographies of North America’s rural landscape, though they rarely track religion per se, still teem with the things of faith: in church placards on the road and the Sacred Heart on living room walls, in the last words of the dying or the glow of a forest fire that (say onlookers) is just like hell.12 In Quebec, too, religion is ines­ capable in the countryside. Caretakers live in villages defined by par­ ishes, each bearing a saint’s name. Rangs spread outwards from a tow­ ering church at the centre of town. Its steeple punctures the horizon, the most visible landmark for miles. Crosses are scattered throughout this landscape: large ones on mountains, small ones at roadside acci­ dents, medium ones at each cemetery and church. Caretakers, and likely many rural Québécois more generally, view Catholic identity in ways that reflect what sociologist Danièle Hervieu­ Léger calls “Church­type religious spatiality,” referring to how all people born under Catholic jurisdiction are considered ipso facto members or

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potential members of the Church, sealed through infant baptism.13 As a result, when caretakers describe their neighbours and extended families, the main distinction they draw is between “practising” and “believing” Catholics; the former go to Mass, the latter do not. But nearly everyone believes in God, Jesus, and a Christian afterlife. The separation between Catholic things and “secular” ones is further obscured because the same individuals head important founding families, serve on the parish fabrique, and are elected to the municipal council, as described in Parent and Charron’s chapter (this volume). In short, the kinds of distinctions salient to studies of institutional processes, such as educational policy or legal codes, fail to account for the piecemeal, collective, and negoti­ ated ways that religion happens in rural places. Of course, such rural places are neither immutable nor homoge­ neous, though they are often portrayed that way.14 Depending on where their villages are located – for example, near tourist attractions like Saint­Jovite – caretakers live amongst populations that include summering vacationers, Québécois urbanites or Western Europeans in search of country life, and historic anglo­Protestant towns.15 Further, although all caretakers are Québécois “de souche” (of French ances­ try), at least half of the people I surveyed grew up in other villages, moving to their current parish when they married (if a woman) or to find work (if a man). Cross caretakers are also aware of broader reli­ gious changes in Quebec and in the Church. They might be categorized as ritual traditionalists (they attend Mass, maintain wayside crosses) and to some extent theological liberals.16 They applaud most “mod­ ernizations” since Vatican II, though they lament how the defection of thousands of priests and nuns left a major gap in the kinds of services the Church can provide (Parent and Charron, this volume). Caretakers often blame the shortage partly on what they view as outdated restric­ tions – women should be ordained, priests should be allowed to marry. They also blame institutional failures, especially sex abuse scandals, for the ambivalence many people feel about the Church. Fundamentally, however, they pinpoint other societal changes, which they group broadly as “materialism,” for the decline in church going. The Catholic Church has long defined materialism as a philosoph­ ical system that denies the existence of God, such as Communism.

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When caretakers use the term, they draw a more colloquial associa­ tion. In some cases, they say, rural people lust after unnecessary con­ sumer goods and waste time on frivolous (even dangerous) leisure pursuits, like video games and getting drunk. They define materialism differently in the context of hardworking young parents, including many of their children. To afford the modern conveniences now con­ sidered necessary, both parents work full time at (low paying) wage labour jobs. Work was hard on the farm, recall caretakers, but it was of a different sort, with seasons of rest and Sundays off. Now parents work on Sundays and enroll their children in endless extracurricular activities, which teachers tell them is necessary for future success. Caretakers never blame young families, but they note that religious participation suffers when parents are tired and distracted, and chil­ dren are overbooked. A further issue, about which most caretakers feel very strongly, is the incremental loss of religion in public places and, especially, schools. In 1964, the Lesage government created a Ministry of Education to nationalize the school system formerly under Church control. By the early 1970s, rang schools were closed and children bussed into town centres. However, most rural Catholics pinpoint the feeling of loss to much later: Pauline Marois’ program to deconfes­ sionalize schools in 1997, followed by the introduction of a manda­ tory “Ethics and Culture” course in 2008.17 One caretaker, François Germain, fifty­eight, speaks for many when he says, “The croix de chemin shows that there is still belief and faith in the community. We know that they aren’t teaching [Catholicism] in schools ... We are trying to preserve an example and a lesson [un enseignement] of reli­ gion in the community.” Caretakers are not sure who to blame – they imagine that such changes are driven by a small group Québécois atheists or by recent immigrants (implicitly, Muslims). Either way, it seems that faraway urbanites are supressing religion in places that are “totally Catholic and believing,” as another caretaker put it.18 Such reactions do not, of course, mean that we should essentialize rural places as sites of resistance to modern ideas emanating from urban centres.19 Undeniably, caretakers may feel (and often are) rel­ atively powerless politically, at least at a provincial level. However,

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change occurs in ways that are specific to the countryside, as wayside crosses show. Like all people, caretakers sometimes welcome it and other times do not.

place­making i: roadways For half a century, scholars have debated whether sacred space is situated at the axis mundi or liminal boundaries of people’s religious and physical worlds.20 Wayside crosses are a bit of both. Most are centrally planted on a village square, front yard, or the road leading into town. Yet they are also situated on the peripheral outskirts of fields or a few kilometres from human habitation. The single require­ ment is that the cross be visible from a road.21 In the mid­1970s, Quebec’s rural roads changed dramatically. Construction crews widened and paved the rangs as part of a major provincial infrastructure project. They also built a comprehensive highway system that circumvented many of the old roads alto­ gether. As they went, they knocked down wayside crosses in their way. Other times, people abandoned crosses on rangs that were no longer travelled. Though caretakers acknowledge that many crosses were destroyed, they are unreservedly enthusiastic about the modernizations that improved life immeasurably for farm families. People even prayed at wayside crosses, asking God to bring them government roads.22 As the roads came, people bought new cars or trucks and drove much faster than before. Rapidity of travel is more than just a hall­ mark of modernity – it greatly changes experiences of place.23 Rural people began to choose straight highways over small roads and they no longer paused at the crosses. Other times, they drove so fast (and sometimes drunk) that they crashed into them. “I saw it happen more than once,” a caretaker named Daniel Richard recalls, “and it was a sad thing. A big, new cross could come down like that – pah! – in the night. You never saw that happen with horses. It would have been impossible to [hit it] with so much force.” Wayside crosses also lost their function as gathering places for prayers if the parish church was far away. The new roads collapsed distances: a church fifteen

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figures 5.3 (above) and 5.4 (detail, opposite) A cross in Saint­Ferdinand village, near a curve in the road with space for cars to pull over. Its niche contains a statue of the Sacred Heart. Photographed in October 2014 by Gérald Arbour.

kilometers away could now be reached in minutes. While this his­ tory reinforces how religious change is never unmoored from other spheres of society, including shifts in economy and infrastructure, in Quebec the link was also explicit. The government’s rural develop­ ment plans were conterminous with the Church’s pastoral develop­ ment programs in the same areas – indeed, they often relied on the same consultative methods and even personnel.24 Despite the changes, many crosses survived and by the 1990s there was a wave of restorations, which took into account the changes new roads had wrought.25 Builders shifted the location of crosses to protect them from speeding cars, moving them higher onto ridges. If a road was no longer travelled, they sometimes picked up a cross

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and moved it, a difficult operation requiring construction equipment. Caretakers also began to think carefully about the geography of the road, which had been less necessary when people plodded by on foot or by horse. Henri­Paul Gagné, seventy­three, from Saint­Ferdinand village is a good example. As a child in the 1950s, he walked to school past a bright white wayside cross with purple bleeding hearts flowering at its base. “I found it so beautiful. It stayed etched in my mind,” he recalls. In 1993, he and his wife bought some land outside

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the village near a hill at a bend in the road. As soon as he saw it he knew it was “a good place for a cross.” On modern roads, this means a place where the road is large enough to have through traffic but small enough so that drivers can pull over. Caretakers also often erect crosses at corners, intersections, and crossroads. Though at one point this preference may have been related to protection against wandering souls drawn to such places, today these spots retain value because they defy the logic of modern highways by forcing drivers to slow down or stop. Henri­Paul’s location is especially good, he notes, because bends in the road make cars slow down but also obscure the view ahead; his cross is situated at a bend and a hill, making it visible for miles in each direction. However once he planted it he realized that the shoulder was too narrow to pull over. So he added a parking spot. “Now people can park their cars and go pray,” he says. “At least two or three times a month I see people stop to pray.”

place­making ii: nature Wayside crosses are never planted in urban or wilderness places, even the “constructed” wilderness of national parks.26 They belong to the in­between places of the countryside, where nature is abundant but tamed. Earlier scholarship on wayside crosses portrayed this natural landscape as largely antagonistic. In 1981, Paul Carpentier’s magis­ terial study of the crosses argued that builders sought to placate the wrath of an angry “Judaic” God who smote them with droughts, fires, and pestilence. According to Carpentier, wayside crosses sacral­ ized the land, while also signifying French­Canadian ambivalence towards (even fear of) the natural elements around them.27 His interpretation drew heavily on Émile Durkheim’s and Arnold Van Gennep’s definition of the sacred as separate from the profane, as applied by Mircea Eliade to sacred places where “an irruption of the sacred ... results in detaching a territory from the surrounding cos­ mic milieu and making it qualitatively different.”28 For Carpentier, the crosses delimited French­Canadian villages as separate Catholic space. This process was repeated in the crosses’ more immediate milieu, where caretakers erected circular fences and groomed shrubs

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or flowers in order to draw a separation from profane nature.29 This rather rigid definition of sacred space as an inviolable, heterotopic “other” still inflects many Québécois studies of religious places.30 Viewing the crosses as emplaced objects offers a more nuanced per­ spective. Caretakers can (and do) leave their villages, moving into cities or across provincial lines often to find work in the logging camps and oil fields of western Canada. The crosses’ movement is admittedly more circumscribed. They are rarely found beyond the territory of franco­ phone Quebec, apart from the Acadian and Franco­Ontarian “bor­ derlands.” Moreover, at the microlevel each cross is associated with a particular family or rang, from whence it gets its name (the “Mercier” or “Rang 5” cross). Take, for example, the restoration of the crosses in Saint­François­Xavier­de­Brompton, spearheaded in 2013 by Manon Jolin and Denyse Morin in the context of the village’s one hundred and twenty­fifth anniversary. Inspired by their families’ crosses, they encouraged renewals of a number of others including one on Rang 6, erected in the 1920s by Délima Racine and Polydore Lapierre to ward off a grasshopper epidemic. The family that owned the land in 2013 was letting the cross rot. The two women began by asking a descen­ dent, Léo Lapierre, to undertake the reconstruction. Then they asked Karine Jolin, the great­granddaughter of Délima, for assent to move it to her land. At the end, they installed a plaque recounting the role of these direct family members and specifying that the cross was still “on land that was part of the family land.” Admittedly, this case does not represent most renewals since it was orchestrated by amateur historians with a particular interest in each cross’ lineage. Other people renew and then care for crosses whether or not they know who constructed them. However, Manon and Denyse’s work is helpful in how it magnifies the pattern I want to highlight: they (re)produced symbolic connections between founding families, the land, and their crosses. Importantly though, the particu­ lar site upon which the cross stood was never considered inherently sacred, as the Eliadean model suggests. A cross can always be picked up and moved, generally to facilitate its care or enhance its visibility. In Rang 6, notes the plaque rather tersely, “the new owners [of the property] no longer wanted it on their land.”31

figure 5.5 A simple cross with an impressive garden along a road in St­Ignace­ de­Stanbridge village. Photographed in 2010.

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Unlike more rigid definitions, then, the “sacred space” associated with crosses is always in flux and the putative sacred/profane divide is porous. Natural elements groomed near the cross continue imper­ ceptibly into overlapping spaces – grass spreads into nearby fields, seeds from bushes blow away and take root.32 Further, while cultivat­ ing plants at the cross does distinguish the space from its surround­ ings, as Carpentier noted, caretakers describe such interventions as serving not to separate the site from nature but to enhance the beauty of the cross as an outdoor object. Henri­Paul Gagné, who planted colourful flowers at his cross on the ridge, says: “The cross goes with nature. It’s God who creates nature. The cross is found in nature. It’s forested and it’s beautiful ... It’s a place of peace. And being Catholic, for me it represents faith.” Like many caretakers, Henri­Paul goes to Mass and likes his local priest – but is ambivalent about institutional Catholicism writ large. The wayside cross is effective in part because it powerfully joins man to nature and thus directly to God. As such, it speaks to a major ontological shift: Catholics like Henri­Paul no lon­ ger view natural disasters or disease as “God’s work.” Instead, nearly all caretakers describe Christianity as predicated on God’s love for his creations. Any lingering ambivalence about nature focuses squarely on the effort it takes to protect objects from deterioration in the harsh Canadian winter: replacing wood and rusting nails, finding less porous paint, or replanting hardy perennials. Wayside cross care follows the rhythm of the agricultural seasons. Cleaning a cross in the springtime mirrors the repairs done to houses, farms, or gardens. Many caretakers use leftover plant clippings and materials from home construction for cross renovations. Throughout the summer, they return to trim the grass and touch up the paint. Cross care ends with the first frost and begins with the first thaw. When heritage professionals evaluate a cross, they view flower gar­ dens and other natural elements as superfluous to the object itself.33 For most caretakers, however, plants are essential, even participatory, in their work. Suzanne Parmentier, eighty­one, heads the Société de Patrimoine in Contrecoeur and maintains a cross. “Usually I tend to the flowers in the spring, and I say my prayers at the same time,” she

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says. “But they aren’t major prayers. It’s planting the flowers that serves as my prayer. And I ask the flowers to pray for me too since they are there all the time.” Other times, flowers “work” because they draw the human eye. Rollande Allard­Charron, sixty­eight, in Ste­Théodosie, built a cross in 2001 following a personal tragedy during which she was helped by Saint Joseph. She placed his statue in the cross’ niche. “Every morning, when I go outside to [feed] the chickens,” she says, “I go say hello to my Saint Joseph and entrust my day to him.” This sense of love and protection is extended to others if they notice the cross as they pass. They stop most often, Rollande notes, when the garden is in bloom. “Often they say, ‘It’s beautiful around your cross!’ They are thinking maybe more of the flowers than the cross but it makes a whole ... So I put the flowers and then they stop and take notice.” When gardening around the cross is viewed as a type of devotion (a “little prayer” according to Suzanne), it can also effectively involve children who are believing but not practising Catholics. Charlotte Mercier, seventy­eight, constructed and maintains an elaborate set of three crosses in Shipshaw. Once a year she brings her teenage grandsons. “I make them work at the cross [with me],” she says, “Cutting the grass, cutting the trees, transporting things, something like that. We do it in May once the snow has melted. I want them to be involved in it a bit ... I tell them that this is a prayer too. It’s making it beautiful in honor of Him.” A clean, well­groomed cross is a way to honour God and serves as a testament for passersby of caretakers’ active spiritual commitment. For this reason, many way­ side cross miracles are seemingly insignificant ones involving plants: cedars sprouted right after the cross was erected, recounted a woman in Île Bizard, following years of failed attempts to grow them on that site; in a single night, recalled another woman in Rouyn­Noranda, a magnificent garden grew up around the cross. The neighbours asked everyone but no one had planted it.34 Gardens also highlight women’s contributions most clearly. While Catholic devotional practices are often associated with women, way­ side crosses are firmly tied to men as the initial builders.35 Locally, men are considered the “owners” of crosses, a bias that colours scholarly

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work. In Jean Simard’s seminal ethnological survey, women were iden­ tified as cross “creators” (the person who built or solicited construc­ tion) in a mere 2 per cent of cases, though my surveys indicate that women do (perhaps often) initiate constructions undertaken by their male kin. Overall, the Simard team also spoke with women only 22.7 per cent of the time.36 In my own work, too, I have often been directed to speak to a man, while his wife busies herself nearby. When I address her directly she replies, “Oh, I just do a bit of painting and gardening.” Scholars have noted similar phenomena elsewhere: when patriarchal families collaborate to achieve a common end (such as erecting a way­ side cross), the man is viewed as the primary worker and women’s labour is considered “help.”37 Focusing on weekly cross care, women suddenly shift into view. They are equal partners in these regular tasks, though not in the initial labour of construction.

people gathering i: month of mary Through wayside crosses, humans transform undifferentiated spaces into known places. Events are especially effective in this regard since they connect experience to a particular time and location (“There is no such thing as a sheer occurrence that occurs nowhere,” Edward Casey notes). Religious ritual, as a particularly powerful type of event, often elicits these kinds of connections.38 Month of Mary prayers, like those described in Saint­Jovite, are a good example. In the mid­twentieth century, month of Mary prayers often took the form of collective novenas (nine days of prayer) or other group prayers. Women, including the local schoolteacher, generally orga­ nized these events since men were busy in the fields. In the 1970s and 1980s, many rangs abandoned such prayers for various reasons: cars meant that people could get to the local church and no longer needed to meet outside; speeding vehicles posed a danger to groups gathered along the road; rural school closures resulted in the loss of the headmistress who had often organized them; and most impor­ tantly, novenas and other collective prayers lost favour in the Church after Vatican II.39 Today, if month of Mary gatherings persist they are no longer deemed integral and take the pared­down form evident in

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Saint­Jovite – once weekly prayers by a group of older people. Such prayer groups pop up here and there across the province, reviving usually for a few years at time following the construction of a new cross or through the exertions of a local organizer.40 Engaging in group prayers seems counterintuitive at first. Contemporary rural Catholics associate the crosses with facilitating and expressing personal relationships with the Divine. In fact, they find problematic earlier Catholic communalism, which they associate with a “group mentality” that led people to attend church because of social pressure. Second, May prayers – at least officially – are dedi­ cated to Mary. While Catholics never use the derogatory (Protestant) term “Mariolatry” to describe the Church’s relationship to Mary and she is still recognized as Co­Redemptrix, the Second Vatican Council ended the “Marian Century,” which gave rise to devotions like the month of Mary.41 And while wayside cross care still follows the agricultural calendar, as noted above, the once­deep connection between Catholic rituals and agricultural rhythms is hardly relevant. The rural people who attend are no longer subsistence farmers, and, since the advent of new farming technologies, they no longer pray for agricultural abundance and fertility, once connected to Mary as the vessel of God. It is illustrative that before the 1960s 80 per cent of prayers were concerned with agriculture and 20 per cent with other humans.42 It is the inverse today. At the May prayers I joined in dif­ ferent locations, we prayed variously for the health of a group mem­ ber’s grandchild, the recovery of an elderly villager in the hospital, the safe return of a baby kidnapped in a nearby city, and an end to the war in Syria. Participants tend to brush aside questions about the connection between the cross, May, and Mary. “Prayers are always powerful,” they respond. Other times, the link they draw is physical, a ritualized mimesis of Mary’s role during the crucifixion: “When we gather at the foot of the cross, we do as she did. We look up, we concentrate our attention on Jesus, his suffering.”43 For caretakers, focusing on Mary can problematically divert atten­ tion from the central importance of Jesus and God. They also know that group prayers may seem retrograde and even symbolic of the failings of Québécois Catholicism. So why hold them at all? One

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reason, not surprisingly, has to do with community. Caretakers are aware that their neighbours – including some who donate money to maintain the local cross – may value it for historical continuity, rather than religion. Month of Mary prayers produce a moment of collective clarity: it is the one time a Catholic “core” performs religi­ osity, publicly marking the cross as a place of devotion. In this sense, while May prayers do not produce feelings as all­encompassing as Victor Turner’s notion of communitas or Durkheim’s collective effer­ vescence, they still share qualities with pilgrimage. People gather at the cross to embody an intensified version of collective ideals. The group in prayer becomes an “image of perfection”44 – a community of Catholic believers supporting each other, in synchronicity with the nonvisible beings who populate their world, including Mary, God, Jesus, and the deceased kin who once prayed at the cross with them. May prayers also appeal because few locals stop regularly at the cross during year, even those who pray briefly as they drive by. During the gatherings, participants finally pause and feel the movement of nature. They describe exceptional moments – the flight of birds, a gust of wind, a shaft of sun – when nature, sensation, and collective prayer combine to create an overwhelming feeling of divine presence.45 Nature often produces such cosmological affects, as Merleau­Ponty poetically remarked: “As I contemplate the blue of the sky I am not set over against it as a cosmic subject ... I abandon myself to it and plunge into this mystery, it ‘thinks itself within me,’ I am the sky itself ... my consciousness is saturated with this limitless blue.”46 It was a passage that echoed in my mind in Cap­Santé, a village on the Saint Lawrence River, when I met with a local group one May to pray. We stood at the edge of the parish cemetery on a bluff above the water in a semicircle facing a white crucifix with a statue of Mary at its base; one woman placed a bouquet of yellow tulips at her feet. The cross was blindingly bright, framed by dark green leaves, and reflecting the glow of the eve­ ning sun. The sky stretched pink overhead; water glinted through the foliage; birds were audible in the pauses between prayers, our voices carried away by the breeze. It produced a feeling of utter expansive­ ness, in Merleau­Ponty’s sense, that differed immeasurably from stand­ ing on Highway 117 near Saint­Jovite, where the setting and the rain

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created a stronger sense of human closeness and pathos. One begins to comprehend why rural people are so often drawn to particular crosses at particular times of the day or year. Caretakers also describe May prayers as reinforcing a wayside cross’s raison d’être: gathering at its base makes it visible to passersby. This final reason for engaging in group prayers casts people, like nat­ ural elements, as extensions of the cross. A group of people and a lineup of cars are noticeable aberrations in the rural landscape that attest to human care and devotion. For this reason, too, the prayers may draw anti­Catholic sentiment. One time, a local man called the Cap­Santé group a “herd of cows” as he sped by them, later repeat­ ing this charge in the local newspaper, adding that they were “from another era.”47 Yet however successful the prayers may be at drawing outsiders’ attention (negative or otherwise), participants never view them as necessary. Like spring cleaning or gardening, the ritualized act of gathering is subordinate to the main project: ensuring that a cross is visible and well maintained. Thus if the prayer group dis­ bands, caretakers are rarely concerned. Sometimes they barely notice.

people gathering ii: benedictions Benedictions, on the other hand, are indispensable: there must be a public ceremony at which each new (or reconstructed) cross is blessed by a priest. It is so integral that caretakers are sometimes confused if I ask them why they opted to have one. “Well, of course you can’t have a cross if there’s no benediction,” responded Mario Bourbonnais, fifty­two, from Sainte­Marthe­de­Rigaud. “We made it for God [and] certainly that goes with it. It’s surely not even a question to ask. It requires the benediction.” Though most caretakers profess to have no idea how other villages and parishes bless their crosses, there are certain constants that define the ritual. It accompanies any new construction or a reconstruction that uses mostly new materials – even if it is an exact replica of an earlier cross on the same site. Blessings take place within a year of construction, although they may be delayed if the caretaker clearly intends to have one or the priest is unusually busy. The priest officiates

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figure 5.6 Gathering to bless a renovated cross in Saint­Come­de­Linière. The priest sprinkles holy water and places his hand upon it as he intones the blessing. Photographed in September 2013.

(often in his vestments), saying a prayer and sprinkling the cross with holy water. There is no proscriptive prayer so priests tend to draw on standard blessings for household objects and crosses: Let this water call to mind our baptism into Christ ... By the power of his Cross, free us from sin and let us live each day for you. We bless and praise you for this sign of glory. Let this cross remind us that Jesus died and rose for us all.48 Benedictions draw about fifty people in most villages. Organizers decorate with flowers, may designate areas for parking, and set up tents in case of rain. After the blessing, the group says a series of

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collective prayers, normally a decade of the rosary and “Our Father.” The ceremony may also include a short homily, speeches, and be fol­ lowed by a lunch or picnic. If they can be reached, the descendants of the original builder normally play an important part in the pro­ ceedings. At the “Mercier” cross, for example, Mercier children and grandchildren are invited, whether or not they participated in the reconstruction (or are actively practising Catholics). These important individuals, the caretakers, the priest (and the visiting anthropolo­ gist) are grouped in front of the cross and photographed, a souvenir that is reproduced in memorial albums, the parish newsletter, and local papers.49 If there are other crosses to bless, the group drives in caravan from site to site. At each one, the ceremony repeats. Writing in the 1930s, anthropologist Horace Miner interpreted these benedictions in light of functionalist theories, describing them as a ritual that reinstated societal equilibrium and group cohesion. Writing a generation later, Paul Carpentier disagreed, arguing that the cross is an object offered to God, understood to belong to Him. Thus the benediction’s purpose is to include the priest, who knows the secret rites of liturgy and thereby connects the people and their cross to God.50 Drawing on early anthropology, Carpentier com­ pared popular Catholicism to “primitive” religion in tribal societies. He felt that caretakers’ inability to discursively explain the reason for benedictions – for example, in Mario’s answer above – confirmed that the practice was indeed viewed as a sort of magic, whereby the fetish becomes an object of power.51 Another generation later, I interpret the benedictions differently again. Contemporary caretakers do not view the priest as a keeper of ritual secrets nor as the gatekeeper of their relationship with God. They orchestrate the entire celebration and may even specify which prayers he should say. Yet the priest’s presence is crucial partly because it reiterates the format of the Mass, which remains the sig­ nal ritual in Catholicism. It is also important because “that’s how it’s always been done.” This stasis (or attempted stasis) is not a sign of pathological irrationality or traditionalism, as Carpentier might have it. Rather, a key attribute of crosses is that they link generations of living and dead humans together, as noted above. To organize a

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benediction is to engage in a self­consciously mimetic act that con­ nects participants now to participants then, as well as lay people to the Church. Through the benediction ritual, then, the cross becomes what Mikhail Bakhtin calls a chronotope – “points in the geogra­ phy of a community where time and space intersect and fuse.”52 This fusion is encapsulated in each benediction portrait, which groups contemporary builders, descendants of the original family to embody the ancestral past, and the priest in his vestments. At another level, however, I concur with Carpentier: the benedic­ tion transfers possession of the cross to God. Crosses come about through human creativity and labour, the “corporeal intentional­ ity” that determines a body’s relationship to places and objects.53 Caretakers know this viscerally since they are the ones who designed the cross, soldered, sawed, or nailed together each piece, planted it on a site of their choosing, and landscaped the area around it. To bless a cross is thus to secure God’s collaboration and “approval.” Diane Imbeault, in her seventies, from Notre­Dame de Lorette says it is “like getting Jesus on board with the work that was done. Having Jesus be aware of what we’re doing and our prayers.”54 Mario adds to his response above, saying: “We made [the cross] for God. And the benediction, it means to be in accord with God ... And that accord shows that we are protected, that He is watching over the cross, and the people who go there will have good thoughts (bonnes pensées) ... When God blesses [an object], it’s a way for Him to show us His love, His attention.” While caretakers are sure that God will approve of the cross, a benediction ceremony articulates their prayers clearly and allows God to contribute, through his blessing, in the work being done. Through benediction their experience of the cross shifts from a phys­ ical one – the separate pieces of lumber and screws, the sweat of haul­ ing, digging, nailing – to a cosmic one: it becomes a unified whole that belongs to God and an instrument through which God can be present and attend to their prayers. Normand Fréchette, fifty­eight, analogizes, “If you bless a rosary that you buy, it seems to me that it’s stronger ... We made [the cross or rosary] with human hands but now there’s something extra that’s added from God.” The something extra

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is often associated with protection – both “good thoughts” and pro­ tection from physical harm. While Carpentier viewed this association as a fetish­like quality indicative of a primitive religious “other,” care­ takers emphasize that it corresponds with accepted Catholic modes of object use, such as blessing a rosary before hanging it in the car or by a child’s bed. Caretakers know that blessed objects “work,” though they are rarely able (or willing) to disentangle why. They may imply that pro­ tection emanates from the physical object, yet they underline that its source is the relationship with God that is mediated through it. Some caretakers conclude that object itself is effective merely in its capacity to remind passersby to pray. Regardless, they emphasize that blessed objects are increasingly important in rural Quebec, now that most people believe in God but no longer practise. Dedicated Catholics, like themselves, can place an object in proximity to others so that its power extends to them – the rosary next to a sleeping grand­ child, for example, or the wayside cross that protects drivers though they may be unaware of its presence. Whether or not they highlight protection per se, all caretakers concur that the crosses signal and promote a relationship with God that is essential to human flourish­ ing. Thousands of blessed crosses, each having absorbed holy water, create a patchwork of prayer places across Quebec. While there is no literal contestation over a definable place, a theme central to many studies of sacred spaces since the 1990s,55 caretakers often imagine a type of contest that pits a small group of practising Catholics (them­ selves) against a small(er) group of atheists (politicians and pun­ dits) vying for control of religious artifacts in public places. In this contest, Catholics build and nurture things, while atheists destroy them. Caretakers see themselves as working on behalf of the French­ Canadian majority, believing­not­practising Catholics who “would really notice and feel an emptiness”56 if public signs of Christianity disappeared altogether, eliminating key nodes of communication with God. Thus the benediction is an event that encompasses the people actu­ ally present, the ancestors, and the future­potential people who will pass by. Rollande, sixty­eight, who built the cross dedicated to Saint

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Joseph, describes this ripple effect: “The cross is a blessing for all the people who were there [at the benediction]. It’s also a blessing for the people in the rang because they, when they come home, they see it too. And also for the people who drive by. Seeing the cross reminds us of our salvation.” Her neighbours tell her that it reminds them that, “there’s Someone there [in Heaven].” Strangers ask to photo­ graph the cross, which she takes to mean “that it signifies something for them too. Maybe not as profoundly as it does for me, but fine. They still feel a reminder [of God].”

rural catholicism on the side of the road “Rural life is grounded in the experience of place,” writes sociologist Mary Jo Neitz in her study of rural US churches. Attending to the local and the particular is thus both crucial in studies of rural religion and also potentially problematic. “For us as researchers,” Neitz adds, “... the danger of looking at the place­basedness of rural churches is that of lapsing into nostalgia.”57 In both anglo­America and Quebec, the rural can be seen as immutable and timeless, a place where traditional religion is unconsciously absorbed and preserved.58 Québécois intel­ lectuals have often championed this idea. Influential ethnologist and Dominican priest Benoît Lacroix’s popular memoir is just one example, where he portrays French­Canadians as a people who, in the mid­twen­ tieth century, “found ourselves with a ‘medieval’ religion with startling continuity [to the past].”59 In Lacroix’s writing, and more broadly, the “startling” immutability of Québécois Catholicism is a double­edged sword: there is nostalgia for an imagined tight­knit communal family life (inseparable from parish life); there is also embarrassment, or anger, that French­Canadians were less “modern,” less economically success­ ful than their anglo counterparts. At a conceptual level, then, “rural Catholicism” became symbolic of fraught questions about francophone continuity in the post­1960s propulsion towards, and repulsion from, English­speaking North America’s vision of capitalist success. The strong symbolic quality with which “the rural” is infused not surprisingly obscures the actual people and places that make up this landscape, as well as the challenges and possibilities therein.60

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Rural places, and the Catholicism practiced there, are not a static reproduction of the past nor do their inhabitants inevitably expe­ rience “modernity” as do their urban counterparts. Yet patterns of rural religiosity are routinely ignored or, worse yet, consigned to the dustbin of history and the glass cases of folklore museums.61 The major point this chapter makes, then, is that religious practices characterized by others (including scholars) as marked by loss or decline may also be perceived quite differently, depending on the lens through which we view them. As work on North American immigrants has shown, for example, although objectively people may move from places where their religion is the majority to those where it is marginal, it is not necessarily experienced as a loss. “There and then” and “here and now” are co­constituitive of a ten­ sile religious practice.62 By focusing on one particular site of rural Catholicism – prayer places on the side of roads – I aim to disrupt urban­centred narratives that fail to see the kind of practice and belief operating in the coun­ tryside. In this particular context, there are a few important points to note. First, for Québécois caretakers there is no easy distinction between “culture” and “religion” or “popular” and “institutional” Catholicism. The point is worth emphasizing since caretakers build and bless crosses in order to maintain strong affective ties between land, family, and God. It is complementary to the work of maintaining parishes and, indeed, the Quebec Catholic Church itself. However, it is not quite the same thing. For most caretakers, the only “nonnego­ tiable” is belief in God, who protects and loves human beings. For them, the depth of this ongoing relationship between God and the Québécois people is evidenced by the very fact of generations of pre­ vious cross builders, whom they honour with their labour. Second, cross caretaking illustrates how histories of religious change are never fully separable from “secular” ones. The shifts described here are various: infrastructure changes as roads are built and rerouted, continual interactions with the natural environment at the cross, theological changes after Vatican II, and a host of other economic, political, and demographic realities that colour rural peo­ ple’s lives. This, then, is the “arena of common engagement” that,

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as per Edward Casey, brings things, lives, and words into a config­ urative complex, including “secular” government development and changing “religious” norms regarding, say, the celebration of Mass or the amalgamation of parishes (Parent and Charron, this volume). Third, and most importantly perhaps, from caretakers’ perspective history is not a progressive march to secularization. It is better char­ acterized as a series of cyclical waves that led to periods of increased wayside cross care, for example in the 1980s and 1990s. The crosses connect to the past but are not of it since the methods of and reasons for cross care changes with each generation. Further, if we turn our gaze from institutional changes and take people’s own histories into account, caretakers’ experience suddenly belies easy generalizations about post­1960s secularization since at a personal level their faith has actually deepened over time. “The main thing you should note down,” concluded Mario Bourbonnais as our conversation drew to a close, “is that my faith has gotten bigger as I age. I’m certain that fact will surprise your readers ... But it’s the most important thing to know about me.”

6 Pilgrims’ Presence: Catholic Continuity in Quebec Emma Anderson

Quebec’s tangled relationship with its religious past has the same depth, intimacy, and ambivalences as family life itself. It is complex emotionally and psychologically: full of idealism and bitterness, disappointment and nostalgia, topped with an often tart, take­you­ down­a­peg humour, which, while taken for granted by Québécois, can often baffle outsiders. Only in Quebec could a shrine’s rector brush off the fact that his institution’s cafeteria (itself titled La Sainte Fringale or “the Saintly Snack”) lovingly prepares and serves a favor­ ite traditional desert, le pet de soeur (the nun’s fart) with a mild “but no one is offended, it is just tradition.”1 Studying contemporary Québécois pilgrimage provides much­ needed nuance to Canadian religious historiography, which, though substantially nuanced during the last twenty years, arguably still remains mired in the starkly totalizing dyads of “before” and “after” the Quiet Revolution. In addition to the statistical realities of low mass attendance and ultra­low birth rates noted in this vol­ ume’s “Introduction,” anecdotal evidence suggests a deeply scepti­ cal, even hostile attitude toward religion in contemporary Quebec.2 Admittedly, the provincial government’s 2012 attempt to ban the wearing of religious symbols or clothing by its employees failed. But the popularity of municipal legislation against the niqab (gen­ erally in areas with few if any Muslim residents!) often continues (in a “veiled” fashion) Quebec’s contention with its Catholic past through unconscious projection. Islam is the ghost of Catholicism past in contemporary Quebec and as such receives the same angry

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epithets: “authoritarian,” “patriarchal,” “sexist,” and “antimod­ ern.”3 And even when Québécois rally to preserve their province’s echoing churches, irony, and double­entendre are never far behind. “Notre patrimoine religieux,” one fundraising sign notes: “C’est sacré!,” capturing in one short, ambivalent word – sacré – the build­ ings’ precious, irreplaceable value and their exorbitant costliness to maintain.4 Such attitudes suggest that, even today, la Révolution tranquille is not really “over.” Other pieces of Québécois religious life, however, seem to come from another jigsaw entirely. Though eschewing the sacrament of marriage, many Québécois continue to turn to the Catholic Church at the beginning and the end of life: to wit, the continuing high rates of infant baptism and of Catholic internment in the province. Hillary Kaell has documented the continuing respect commanded by road­ side crosses as a symbol of Catholic continuity, family pride, and small­town patrimoine. Pilgrimage in la belle province is yet another understudied piece of this less familiar, more puzzling Quebec. Given the province’s supposed indifference to all things religious, the mere continuation of these incense­haunted lieux de culte, with their exposed human hearts, imposing columns of abandoned crutches, and miracle­work­ ing statues seems surprising. That they continue to command mil­ lions of visitors a year, the vast majority Québécois, seems practically miraculous. But a recent professional marketing survey of 2,570 vis­ itors to the province’s four most popular shrines, commissioned by a newly formed consortium of the shrines themselves, and funded by the province, reveals something even more astonishing: the continu­ ing centrality of religious devotion as the primary force motivating visits to these sacred sites, especially among francophone Québécois. Though how shrines are visited, and with whom has changed dra­ matically (from the collective paroissial pilgrimage of the past to today’s more intimate family groups) visitors’ continued affirmation of traditional beliefs and practices represents an important (if often unacknowledged) Catholic continuity in the province. This chapter explores the dynamics of contemporary pilgrim­ age in Quebec, introducing its places, people, and priests. To give

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readers a sense of the history, ethos, and individual idiosyncrasies of each lieu sacré, a historical overview of each of Quebec’s four national shrines is provided. The essay then describes the demogra­ phy, motivations, and behavior of these shrines’ visitors, enabling the analysis of continuity and brisure with the patterns of the past. Finally, the chapter turns to the contemporary dilemmas of shrine clergy, who are all too aware of both the continuing vibrancy of Québécois pilgrimage and of the many ways it has morphed out of clerical control.

places L’Oratoire Saint-Joseph (osj) Founded in 1904, l’Oratoire Saint­Joseph, at the crest of Mont­Royal in Montreal, is the largest of Quebec’s shrines, attracting over two mil­ lion visitors a year (almost double that of its closest rival, Sainte­Anne­ de­Beaupré). Although officially dedicated to St Joseph, Jesus’ earthly foster­father, its history cannot be separated from that of its founder Frère André who became, after his canonization in 2010, something of a “rival saint” at the very institution he founded. Born André Bissonnette on 9 August 1845, Frère André was the eighth of twelve children in an impoverished Québécois family and experienced loss, privation, and educational and economic dislocation in his formative years. Orphaned, the adolescent Bissonnette, like so many of his gen­ eration, sought work in the factories of New England before returning to Montreal and the bosom of the Church, becoming a lay brother at Collège Notre Dame, run by the Holy Cross Fathers. Unusually slight and small, the probable result of early childhood deprivation, Bissonnette was also functionally illiterate. Never ordained, and never holding a position of institutional authority, Frère André was assigned a series of undemanding, even menial tasks at la College, serving as a laundryman, messenger, lamp­tender, infirmarian, sacristan, and most famously as a doorman and porter. Brother André summed up his lim­ inal position at the institution with the line: “my superiors showed me the door, and I stayed there for forty years.”5

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figure 6.1 Frère André was a lifelong devotee of St Joseph, whom he sought to honour with the establishment of the Oratoire. Here, the two saints together intercede on behalf of an ill child. Taken in the crypt church, Sainte­Anne de Beaupré.

A strong devotee of Saint Joseph, Bissonnette in 1878 began burn­ ing oil in front of a statue of his patron, Saint Joseph, and distrib­ uting it as a healing balm to invalids, despite the attendant scoffing and controversy. In 1904, he realized his long­standing goal to dedi­ cate a small shrine in his patron’s honor on the crest of Mont­Royal, despite the initial opposition of his religious superiors. In the coming decades, both this humble structure and Frère André’s own reputa­ tion as a living saint would grow exponentially. Funded entirely by private donations (including the pocket change of countless school­ children deposited into the church­shaped collection boxes beside the cash­register of every corner store in Montreal)6 the Oratoire evolved from the chapelle primitive of 1904 to the imposing, escalader­infested monstrosity it is today.7 Frère André’s unassuming sanctity took on a similarly epic quality, as his accessibility, down­to­earth warmth, and

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the sheer numbers of ordinary Québécois he personally met, listened to, and prayed with gave him a strong hold on the public’s imagi­ nation. Says David Bureau, archivist at Oratoire Saint­Joseph: “those who were close to him during his life, they say that Frère André did two things in his life: listen to people, and pray. Without stopping. Twenty­four hours out of twenty­four, or almost. There are even peo­ ple who say that they were not even sure that he even slept, because he was always in prayer for the people.”8 When he died in 1937, at the age of ninety­one, more than one million Québécois came to the Oratoire to pay their respects.9 Then, in a move reminiscent of French treatment of their grands hommes, Frère André’s heart was enshrined in a glass vial for popular veneration, making the Oratoire a kind of one­man Montreal Pantheon. Interred, heartless, at the heart of the shrine he had singlehandedly conceived and built, Frère André lies in a black granite tomb donated by Maurice Duplessis, which bears the epitaph: “Pauvre, Obéissant, Humble Serviteur de Dieu.”10 Today, Frère André remains the Oratoire’s most powerful draw, partly because his life­story was easy to transpose into a new key after the Quiet Revolution. Bissonnette’s status as a lay brother, for example, previously emblematic of his “humility,” now became a slip­knot allowing his cult to float free from the shipwreck of institutional Catholicism in the province. His very lack of clerical authority and his relatable struggle to realize his dreams despite the Church’s (initial) opposition absolved him from association with the sinister, authoritarian clerical juggernaut defied by la Révolution. Even Québécois estranged from the Church felt a con­ nection with Frère André because their older relations had shared colourful memories of meeting the saint, making him effectively one of the family. David Bureau notes, “That memory of him is very strong in the province of Quebec ... virtually everyone’s parents and grandparents who lived between 1900 and 1930 knew of Brother André and the Oratory and had probably even met him.”11 Frère André’s evolving cult effectively transposed Jean Chrétien’s famous self­description – “the little guy from Shawinigan” into religious terms: he was the “petit gars” who – against all odds – had founded the Oratoire and healed ordinary Québécois.12

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Sensitive to these dynamics, the Oratory, during the lead­up to Frère André’s canonization employed a professional marketing team to give the soon­to­be­saint an ideological makeover. Among other things, his “poor and humble servant” tagline was changed to the punchy “A Brother. A Friend. A Saint.,” a motto which plays on Bissonnette’s still­strong personal appeal whilst eliminating the dated victim­soul theology.13 Visits to the Oratory were also spurred by two post­mortem events involving Frère André: the bizarre (and still unsolved) theft of his heart and his more recent canonization. In 1973, at the very height of public backlash against the Church and in the unsettled atmosphere created by flq attacks three years earlier, the mysteri­ ous theft seemed to many Québécois to signal the complete moral collapse of their society (while for many non­Catholic anglophones it was merely a morbid storm in a medieval teacup). The dignified reaction of shrine officials to the relic’s loss and their staunch refusal to pay the $50,000 ransom demanded for its safe return earned them grudging respect from press and people alike. Messages of support, donations, and even sympathy cards poured into the shrine. The preserved organ’s disappearance also touched an imaginative cord in a province still struggling to process a decade of unprecedented religious change, as artists, playwrights, and novelists imaginatively filled the void created by the heart’s long absence.14 The trium­ phant return of the relic from the hands of its repentant voleurs on 22 December 1974 was a turning back of la Révolution’s tide: temporarily stilling its waves of black­humoured anticlericalism. Masterminding the return of his own heart was just one miracle among the many attributed to Frère André who, in 2010, received the Church’s ultimate imprimatur: canonization.

Sainte-Anne de Beaupré (sab) At l’Oratoire Saint­Joseph, visitors can commune with the spirit of the institution’s founder, Frère André, Quebec’s only twentieth­ century Catholic saint. But at Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré, the province’s second­largest shrine, they encounter Quebec’s provincial patron:

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Saint Anne, the mother of the Virgin Mary and the grandmother of Jesus. Attracting between 850,000 and a million visitors annually, the sanctuaire is located on the picturesque Beaupré coast about a half­hour’s drive from Quebec City. The shrine’s roots go back virtu­ ally to the inception of New France, making Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré the second oldest Catholic shrine in North America.15 The figure of Saint Anne is a particularly fascinating, complex, and ancient product of Catholicism’s fecund imagination. The saint was fabricated virtually whole cloth in the first century, in response to the insatiable curiosity of the devout regarding the biological lin­ eage of Jesus and the childhood of the Virgin. The saint’s story was inspired by the Hebrew Bible motif of the post­menopausal matriarch belatedly with child by her equally doddering husband, their two elderly bodies like desiccated husks miraculously made to flower by divine blessing. But elements of the sexless miraculous conception of her grandson by her own daughter, Mary, were also retrojected onto Anne. In their long medieval duet, Anne became the earthy contralto grounding the Virgin Mary’s ethereal soprano, progressively defemi­ nized by the exigencies of medieval theology. Anne’s hyper­sexuality – her trinubium or three successive marriages – permitted her daugh­ ter’s progressive hypo­sexualization: as Anne’s fertility allowed Catholic apologists to recast Christ’s biblical brothers as his cousins. At the height of her cult across late medieval Europe, Saint Anne was envisioned as a pious, prosperous grandmother surrounded by a thicket of her offspring, the “Holy Kinship,” a grouping which celebrated the feminine roots of Christ’s humanity and Anne’s own holy fertility.16 Invoked by women labouring in perilous, blood­soaked childbeds, the saint was also implored by barren would­be mothers and single women seeking husbands. Even today, the saint retains a strong association with courtship, marriage, fertility, and birth.17 Some female visitors to Beaupré still murmur the half­serious demiprayer to this holy matchmaker: “Good Saint Anne, get me a man, as fast as you can.”18 Her shrine is still cluttered with wedding pictures, left as ex-voto for answered nuptial prayers. Betrayed by Luther and blindsided by the meteoritic rise of Saint Joseph, her rival for leadership of a diminished, nuclear Holy Family

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consisting of mother, son, and foster father,19 Anne’s star dimmed across much of northern Europe during the Counter Reformation. But the cult of God’s grandmother had not yet reached its zenith in early modern France or its recently founded Canadian colony. In the Gallic context, la bonne Sainte-Anne continued to appeal to the highest and lowest strata of society: evolving a new, strange brew of affective, textual, and imagistic associations. In France, Anne con­ tinued to be invoked by the childless, with the royal identity of her most celebrated devotees colouring the saint with strong nationalist associations. The hitherto barren Anne d’Autriche vowed that should the Saint Anne intercede to ensure the conception of the next king of France, a grateful nation would build a chapel in her honour in newly discovered New France. There, Mary’s mother would become both the safeguard of the embryonic colony and a beacon of salvific light for benighted “sauvages.” And indeed, before the Conquest, Saint Anne did quash all threats to French supremacy in North America, be they aboriginal or English. The walls of her chapel at Beaupré were even used as a redoubt against attacking Iroquois.20 Yet though she was evoked as a staunch defender of the French colony, Anne’s status as a powerful, yet kindly grandmother made her a compre­ hensible, even sympathetic figure for many First Nations in the colo­ nial northeast.21 Post­1759, Saint Anne’s role shifted from military to ideological protection, culminating in her 1876 elevation as the offi­ cial patron of Quebec. And, during the long economic exile of many French­Canadians in the American diaspora – an exodus personally experienced by Frère André – Anne became the saint of survivance: the cultural, linguistic, and confessional survival of the Québécois.22 Unlike Brother André, whose public persona underwent a subtle reconceptualization in the wake of la Révolution Tranquille, the figure of Saint Anne has remained relatively constant, providing a sense of grounded connection to the province’s collective past. In popular cul­ ture, Anne sometimes symbolizes the redemptive power that flows from tradition. In Québécois director Bernard Émond’s luminous 2005 film, La Neuvaine, an understated drama set at Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré, the two faces of contemporary Quebec – traditional devotion and alien­ ated anomie – meet, engage, and save one another. This modern­day

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figure 6.2 In this emotional testimonial, written in the book outside the tomb of Father Pampalon, the writer credits the Redemptorist priest with “delivering” him from the “hell” of drug addiction. Letter writing to holy figures is a staple of popular Catholicism in Quebec. Crypt church, Sainte­Anne de Beaupré.

fable, while it plays with viewers’ expectations of a miracle, tradition­ ally understood, ultimately delivers something even more profound.23 Like Saint Joseph in his Oratoire, Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré has recently been forced to share her glory with a saintly interloper. From his tomb in the crypt chapel, venerable Father Alfred Pampalon, a nineteenth­century Redemptorist priest who lived and died at the shrine, intercedes for those combatting the demons of dependency upon drugs and alcohol. Beaupré thus mimics in miniature the Romulus and Remus dynamics of its larger, rival shrine: also fea­ turing two saintly figures fighting for pilgrims’ devotional attention within the womb of a single sanctuary.

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Notre-Dame du Cap (ndc) Notre­Dame­du­Cap, on the Cap­de­la­Madeleine just east of Trois­ Rivières, is the second­oldest of the four Québécois shrines under consideration, after Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré. This is true whether one dates its foundation from 1659 (when the first church was established on the Cape), or from 1867, when the area experienced a fervent Marian revival. The emphasis at this sanctuary is not on its pristine lineage of continuous pilgrimage, as it is at Sainte­Anne­ de­Beaupré. Rather, it is a story of nadir and rebirth, profanation and revival, of miracles and wonders. Popular legend recounts that in 1867, Père Luc Désilets, hearing a strange crunching noise echo­ ing through his church, was horrified to discover therein a small pig chewing on a rosary. This incident stung him into (rather belated!) indignation at the entrenched religious disinterest of his parish, which had been left a staggering 115 years – from 1729 to 1844 – without a pastor. The priest sought to make reparations to the Virgin by popularizing the very paraliturgical devotion so dishon­ oured by the swine. Accordingly, Désilets refounded the parish’s Rosary Confraternity, originally established in 1694, led rosaries after mass, and encouraged the recitation of the repetitive prayers as a nightly family ritual.24 So successful was Désilets’ campaign of rosary­focused Marian revival that soon a larger parish church was required. The stones for the new structure were bought and amassed on the other side of the broad Saint Lawrence River, with a view to dragging them across on the ice come winter. But the winter of 1879 was so mild that the river (usually) didn’t freeze. In response to the supplicatory rosaries of the devout, some drift ice from upstream, supplemented by the efforts of the parishioners who poured water and amassed snow to strengthen it, formed a narrow, perilous “rosary bridge” allowing the building materials safe passage. This “miracle of the ice” was followed, some years later, by the “prodigy of the eyes.” To the astonishment of Père Désilets and two onlookers, the statue of Notre­Dame­du­Cap suddenly swept its decorous, downcast gaze upward to meet and engage their own. Now enshrined in an

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figure 6.3 A miraculously enlivened statue of Notre­Dame­du­Cap meeting the gaze of her three venerators, including Père Luc Désilets (centre), a key popular­ izer of her cult, in the shrine’s famed “prodigy of the eyes.” Crypt church, Sainte­ Anne de Beaupré.

unusually shaped 1962 basilica, this miraculous “seeing” statue is the major focus of a cult that embraces and expects not just miraculous healing but a wide range of other supernatural signs.25

Ermitage Saint-Antoine (esa) Located on picturesque Lac­Bouchette in the scenic Saguenay region, Érmitage Saint­Antoine is the only one of the sanctuaires not to have been originally founded as such. The smallest of the sites, it is also the most recent. Built in 1907 as the personal retreat of Abbé Elzéar DeLamarre, it served as a family cabin and priestly retreat centre until it became, with the 1908 blessing of its chapel, an official public lieux de culte. Artist Charles Huot, over the course of ten summers on­site, endowed the chapel with elaborate frescos

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depicting the life of Saint Anthony of Padua, to whom Abbé Elzéar had a particular devotion. In 1912, the site’s newly constructed Lourdes grotto almost immediately became the focus of a local pil­ grimage. Following the 1925 death of the abbé, the property was deeded to the Capuchin friars, who still reside there. Many con­ temporary visitors choose to stay over­night in guest hermitage and participate in their collective worship. Though it is the smallest, most remote, and least known of the four sites, particularly outside Quebec, esa is in some ways the best suited to the concerted recent efforts of government authorities to popularize what they call “spiritual tourism” in the province. The 2009 foundation of a demanding 215 km walking trail, Notre Dame Kapatakan, the brainchild of two Catholic laywomen, aficionados of the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage in Spain, ends at the site, only accentuating the fusion of the natural world with supernatural graces which is its special emphasis.26 Unique and idiosyncratic, each with its own story and distinctive flavour, yet shaped by a common, distinctive religious subculture, and facing similar contemporary challenges, these are the four most popular Catholic shrines in Quebec.

people So who do these cool and shadowed spaces, aglow in their candled hush, attract? Who comes to marvel at their vaulted domes or sil­ ver spires, to gaze at their miraculous statues, to touch their marble tombs, to climb their sacred stairs? Who leaves behind the strands of rosary beads, festooned like beaded cobwebs between the abandoned crutches? And what does the visit mean to them? Why do they go? Does their presence at these sites conform to entrenched patterns of collective pilgrimage laid down by previous generations? Or does it represent, on the contrary, a profound, paradoxical break with the past? These are difficult questions to answer, particularly given the sparse academic literature on pilgrimage in post­Révolution Tranquille Quebec, little of which even attempts to address the complexities of visitor demography and motivation.27 Given this, it is highly unlikely

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that this section of the chapter, which presents a virtually up­to­the­ minute portrait of contemporary visitors to these four shrines, could even have been written were it not for a previously unpublished pro­ fessional survey conducted by Léger Marketing of Montreal.28 During the summer of 2011, Léger’s professional interviewers invited every third person entering each of the four sites to respond to a detailed questionnaire, resulting in a data base of 2,750 responses. In addition to posing standard demographic questions, the survey probed deeper to touch upon intimate issues of belief and behaviour, including respondents’ motivations for visiting the shrine, their impressions of the sanctuaire, and their activities on­site. Detailed and objective, the Léger study offers a compelling, unprecedented portrait of visitors to Quebec’s four “national shrines” in the early twenty­first century.29

Who Goes? The Léger survey reveals that the generic visitor to a Québécois shrine is typically over the age of fifty­five (54 per cent)30 and slightly more likely to be female (51 per cent) than male (49 per cent).31 Most visitors come from within (65 per cent) rather than outside Quebec.32 The majority are francophone (70 per cent) Roman Catholics (82 per cent)33 with a relatively high level of education.34 But, while providing a convenient statistical shadow of the typical visitor, this generic phantom masks significant diversity in the demo­ graphic profile of visitors to each of the individual shrines. These differences are most apparent when the best known, most visited and most accessible shrine, Oratoire Saint­Joseph (osj) is compared to the smallest, most obscure sanctuary, esa. osj attracts almost as many visitors as the other three shrines put together: making visits there, in one sense, the normative experience of Québécois pilgrimage. But its visitor demography is so different than the others that it would be equally true to characterize the shrine itself as a giant anomaly. Like the gravitational pull of a mas­ sive planet, the Oratoire’s disproportionate size statistically bends the other sites to its own image, like the rocky rings kept in strict circular rotation around Saturn.

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First of all, visitors to osj are much younger: with eighteen to forty­four­year­olds making up 42 per cent of its visitors, and those aged forty­five to sixty­four comprising another 40 per cent. osj visitors are also much more religiously diverse: though the major­ ity of visitors (a healthy 68 per cent) remain Roman Catholic, the shrine attracts much higher numbers of non­Christians (including, at 7 per cent, more than double the average number of Hindus).35 By contrast, religious diversity barely registers at the smallest site, esa, which attracts a 99 per cent Catholic demographic.36 osj’s maverick dynamics are also apparent in the linguistic makeup of its visitors, with nonfrancophones (at 55 per cent ) actually outnumbering fran­ cophones (at 45 per cent ),37 while at esa, nonfrancophones (at only 2 per cent ) are almost as scarce as non­Catholics.38 The Oratory also attracts more than double the number of “visiteurs non-centrés”39 than its competitors. This self­designation, coined by Léger market­ ing, asks respondents to self­rate the degree to which their travel to the geographical area of the shrine was motivated by their desire to visit the sanctuary. Sixty­five per cent of shrine visitors describe themselves as “visiteurs centrés:” visitors for whom the shrine’s pres­ ence was a “primary” (45 per cent) or “partial” (24 per cent) motiva­ tion. Visiteurs non-centrés, by contrast, report that visiting the shrine was not a predominant motive for their travel.

Why Do They Go? One of the study’s most startling and provocative findings is the per­ sistence, in twenty­first century Quebec, of strongly religious reasons for shrine visits. An astounding 81 per cent of respondents described themselves as spurred to visit these religious sites “in whole” (57 per cent) or “in part” (24 per cent) by “religious faith.”40 Asked about their specific intentions whilst onsite, fully 45 per cent chose the phrases “to ask for help,” “to receive a favour,” and “to offer thanks” to describe their personal agenda.41 Even in the terse brevity of these options a strong degree of undiluted Catholic supernaturalism is apparent. God and all the unseen world hover like the Paraclete over these bland phrases. For “to ask for help” in the context of a

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shrine visit is clearly to implore divine intervention, just as “to receive a favour” suggests an answer to prayer. The popularity of “giving thanks for favours received” likewise suggests that the traditional circularity of pilgrimage, typically composed of an initial visit of vow and entreaty, followed by return visit(s) of thanksgiving, remains per­ tinent to many of today’s visitors. As we might expect, given the demographic anomalies previously outlined, the proportion of visitors expressing these strongly traditional motivations for visiting a lieux de pèlerinage exists in inverse relation­ ship to the shrine’s size. The two smallest shrines, esa and Notre Dame du Cap (ndc), which attract the most confessionally and linguistically uniform clientele, each report 88 per cent of respondents ranking reli­ gious motivations as primary, 7 per cent higher than the overall aver­ age.42 Strikingly, visitors from inside Quebec are far more likely than non­Québécois to articulate a desire to “seek aid,” “receive favors,” or “give thanks” than those from outside the province. 43 Outsiders, con­ versely, are markedly more likely to cite interest in the site’s historical or cultural patrimoine as motivating their visit.44 Overall, however, motives related to the site’s patrimoine or aes­ thetic appeal are a distant (though important) second to religious motives. Only 34 per cent of respondents overall expressed a desire to “to explore a site of cultural and historical significance,” with another 34 per cent stating their aim as being “to experience the beauty of the site/see the view.”45 This data suggests that visitors to Quebec’s sacred sites do not see “secular” motivations as being in contradiction or competition with spiritual impulses. On the contrary, they appear to perceive personal devotion, historical edification, and aesthetic appreciation as entirely compatible. Visitors moved by all of these motivations, moreover, can be understood as engaging in different ways with their individual and collective religious pasts.

With Whom and How Do Visitors Come? What Do They Do Whilst Onsite? While many shrine visitors express a strong (and unexpectedly unam­ biguous) religious motivation for their trip, other statistical currents

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in the Léger survey make it abundantly clear that “this is not your parents’ pilgrimage.” Though spiritual motivations may have per­ sisted after the ravages of la Révolution, how they are now expressed on­site has changed dramatically since the 1960s, with a clear shift from collective (often parish) pilgrimage to atomistic individual and small­group visits. Respondents at all four shrines demonstrated a virtually unani­ mous preference in how and with whom they visited these sites, a factor elegantly glossed by Léger Marketing their cellule de voyage.46 By an overwhelming majority, visitors preferred to travel in private cars (85 per cent), either in very small groups of family and friends (53 per cent) or individually (28 per cent).47 Only 14 per cent of those surveyed opted for an organized, collective experience, as part of a parish pilgrimage or tour group (once the standard and mandated way of experiencing these sites). Once onsite, visitors’ strong preference for experiencing the shrine individually or with their intimates (as opposed to being in the com­ pany of a larger, encompassing group) persisted. The overwhelming majority of respondents (91 per cent) rated la visite libre or “the free visit” – their independent, unscheduled, unhurried, un­rule­filled exploration of the shrine and its grounds – as their favorite experience on­site.48 Many of the most popular subactivities respondents enu­ merated, such as lighting candles, visiting tombs, or writing prayers, were rituals involving direct (rather than clerically mediated) contact with supernatural figures: generally the individual saints who are the special focus of veneration at each particular site, such as Frère André, Saint Joseph, Saint Antoine, Saint Anne, or the Virgin Mary. At Oratoire Saint­Joseph, which attracts the most variegated assortment of visitors, stark contrasts are observable in visitors’ behavior onsite. In one half­hour period in the large, U­shaped space that contains both Brother André’s heart and three glassed­in diora­ mas, which display the diminutive lay brother in the rooms in which he lived, worked, and died I observed various cellules de voyage com­ ing and going, individually self­contained, like translucent fish eggs being born along the current of a stream. Each cellule was unique. One duo of elderly women slowly and reverently approached Frère

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figure 6.4 In response to immense popular interest in Frère André, the Oratoire created dioramas of the rooms in which he lived, worked, and died in the space immediately adjacent to his displayed heart. Taken in St Joseph’s Oratory.

André’s heart, clearly visible in its glass reliquary behind a thick, vault­like door.49 The two in tandem slowly and painfully sank to their knees, bowing their heads in long and silent prayer. Afterwards, the marginally younger of the two helped her friend regain her feet, and the two laboriously crawled underneath the railing so as to leave, as close as possible to the heart, a single long­stemmed pink tea rose. Minutes later, the room was filled with a different energy, as a group of anglophone teenagers arrived, sniffing around the displays like excit­ able dogs before coming to an abrupt stop in front of the imposing reli­ quary. “That’s a real heart, you know,” one girl knowledgeably intoned to another. “Eww, is it really? Gross!” said the other with obliging inter­ est and an elaborate, wiggling shiver. The two then smilingly posed for a “selfie” using Brother André’s helpless heart as a backdrop.50 At Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré, the shrine at which the largest per­ centage of visitors reported their desire to “seek help, obtain a favour,

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figure 6.5 Visitors mill around the base of the miraculous statue of Saint Anne at Beaupré. The side chapel containing her relics is clearly visible in the back­ ground. Upper church, Sainte­Anne de Beaupré.

or give thanks,”51 traditional patterns of spiritual negotiation are still very evident. Pilgrims request Saint Anne’s intercession in a variety of ways: notably through prayers beside her miraculous statue, ele­ vated on a tall pillar in the west transept of the church, or before her relics, displayed in a silver, arm­shaped reliquary in the saint’s elabo­ rate side chapel. It is here that pilgrims often feel inspired to appeal directly to the saint through writing: either in the large blank­books supplied for the purpose or by slipping their appeals into letter­ box­like slots in the pillar’s base. These letters are then put onto the altar and prayed over during mass. 52 Many letter writers continue to follow the traditional pattern of the “vow”: making a contingent promise to Saint Anne that, should she intercede favourably on their behalf, they will reciprocate with some form of public acknowledge­ ment: generally another trip to the shrine, an advertisement in a local paper or devotional newsletter, a donation, or all three.53 In the past,

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figure 6.6 Family photos, flowers, and other ephemeral tokens placed beside statues of Jesus and Veronica at the santa scala of Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré. Note the folded letter in Jesus’s outstretched hand. Santa Scala, Sainte­Anne de Beaupré.

acknowledgement of miracles often took the form of a commissioned painting depicting Anne’s intervention or the donation of crutches or other medical paraphernalia to the shrine following the letter writ­ er’s miraculous cure. Today, ex­votos are often objects that, though of modest monetary value, have deeply felt personal significance, such as a wedding ring, locket, or other treasured family heirloom.54 Traces of the pilgrims’ passage can also be seen in more ephemeral souvenirs, such as the family photos, rosaries, or artificial flowers they leave behind, either in gratitude or mute appeal. Most grace the site’s elaborate Santa Scala, a purported replica of the steps Jesus tra­ versed before his fateful audience with Pilate. In the riser of each step are embedded what could be termed “terrestrial relics”: glassed­in pebbles from particular sites in the Holy Land. After ascending these holy stairs on their knees, visitors often leave their tokens at the feet

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of the life­sized statues of Jesus and Veronica, or Mary Magdalene and Saint John, with some going so far as to tuck notes of entreaty into the folds of their sculpted clothing or place them on an out­ stretched hand ideally fashioned for the purpose. At all four shrines, visitors tend to avoid formal, clergy­led ritu­ als, with only 20 per cent of visitors choosing to attend mass.55 This nonparticipation can be read as a reaffirmation of their original choice not to immerse or dilute their cellule de voyage within a larger collectivity, even for a single hour. Pilgrims’ allergic avoid­ ance of collective religious celebration is all the more striking given that 45 per cent overall wholeheartedly affirm their spiritual moti­ vations for being onsite.56 With a strikingly high degree of unanimity, then, today’s visitors to Quebec’s four national shrines strongly reject two previously pivotal elements of traditional pilgrimage: its collective character (which of necessity involves conformation to a larger group’s ritual rhythms and behavioural expectations) and its mandated participation in the mass or other clerically led rituals. Visitors’ desire to spend this time exclusively with their family or friends rather than with mem­ bers of the fellow patrons of a tour­bus trip represents a striking divergence from pre­Révolution Tranquille patterns when pilgrim­ age to Québécois shrines had a strongly collective component. At Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré, large, organized, pilgrimages of invalids and their caregivers adhered to predictable, prescribed, and clerically led ritual formats, much like betern known pélerinages nationales to Lourdes.57 The climax of annual activity at Beaupré was a novena (a nine­day cycle of prayers for a specific intention) culminating on Saint Anne’s feast: July 26. Such pilgrimages could be characterized as a “ritual ex­voto,” because they were often organized by miraculés (those healed at the site) as a remerciement. Miraculés’ organi­ zation of a parish pilgrimage represented a public acknowledgement of the saint’s intervention in their lives: often a key promise in the conditional, quid pro quo vows made to her. It also permitted the miraculé’s return to the site of their cure in gratitude and celebration, whilst obliquely challenging Saint Anne once again to flex her mirac­ ulous muscles on behalf of others in the group, so that the cycle could

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figure 6.7 Though increasingly rare in reality, Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré’s strong tradition of collective, clerically led pilgrimage is preserved in its very architec­ ture. Note the centrality of the clergy in the groups of figures clustered under Anne’s aegis. Upper church, Sainte­Anne de Beaupré.

repeat again.58 So entrenched was this pattern of collective, clerical pilgrimage that it is memorialized in the basilica’s visual art. Beneath the ascending, triumphant form of Anne in the mosaics of her side­ chapel are a series of petitionary groups consisting of the aged, the infirm, and the lame. Without exception, each contains a priest at its nucleus, like a host in a monstrance. The nave’s stained­glass windows also feature images commem­ orating longstanding American parish pilgrimages to Beaupré, each with the name of the town beneath, memorializing traditions that, though established, have now largely waned. To Père Guy Desrochers, a Redemptorist priest and former rector of the shrine, this fading of formerly vigorous pilgrimages belatedly highlights the pivotal contribution of their miraculé­organizers, whose ranks are now being thinned by death.59

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As collective affairs, pre­Révolution Tranquille parish pilgrim­ ages quite naturally commanded a degree of individual adherence to larger group norms, mandating uniform attendance of organized ritual, devotional, and social activities, including the mass. Collective pilgrimages also imposed strong, if unspoken expectations of pil­ grims’ comportment, even regulating norms of emotional self­expres­ sion onsite. Awe, thanksgiving, and engaged attention were obviously more welcome (and rewarded) than were disappointment, derision, or sullen nonparticipation.60 These older dynamics of collective conformity are still visible in the one form of collective voyage that has, as yet, escaped the individualist trend in shrine visits: the school trip. Whilst at Oratoire Saint­Joseph I shadowed a high­school group from Trois­Rivières, accompanying them as they visited Frère André’s heart and his tomb. Their behaviour and body language spoke volumes: one could easily imagine the thoughts racing through the teens’ heads by reading their strained faces, mimicked postures, and restless glances. “If I listen to the guide, and keep my eyes closed during her ‘meditation,’ will I be seen as a religious fanatic? But if I talk and keep my eyes open, will my friends think I am a disrespectful jerk? What is everyone else doing? Oops, I just opened my eyes – Hey!? Is Thérèse texting?!?” It is precisely this discomfort: this oppressive need to read the tealeaves of expectation and to fit in that adult visitors so assiduously seek to avoid. By remaining aloofly in their cellules and refusing any form of collective participation, they preserve the fullest possible range of agency and self­expression, free from the demands or observation of others, fellow visitors, and clergy alike. These preferences make sense given the larger changes in reli­ gious behavior observable in Quebec since the early 1960s. Since la Révolution, Québécois have tended strongly to reject religious confor­ mity. Popular writing in the province devalorized collective religious behaviour, characterizing it as zombie­like subservience to clerical authority or a cringing, gutless fear of social ostracism. It was the hol­ low participation of the Québécois in rituals from which they were spiritually disengaged, they argued, which led to an inauthentic, shrill, and condemnatory Catholicism in the province, in which laypeople often defensively accused others of sins they were all too aware of

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having committed themselves. Indeed, they lamented, the Québécois were predestined to failure and despair, given the Church’s impossibly high standards for thought, word, and deed, which effectively doomed the Québécois to failure and despair.61 Plunging mass attendance can thus be seen as a belated protest, a behavioural negation of previous patterns of near unanimous observance, and a mute condemnation of the perceived insularity, subservience, and self­righteousness of the province’s religious past. Shrine visitors’ strong desire for experiential privacy and the imag­ inative space to encounter and to improvise onsite means that their behaviour does not easily fit into the stark pilgrim versus tourist dyad often employed in contemporary academic literature. Rather than being driven by contrasting motives or ideologies (as some academics would have it) “pilgrims” and “tourists” in Quebec are more sim­ ilar than different.62 Both sharply reject older, collective models of pilgrimage and of tourism, both in how and with whom they travel to the province’s sanctuaries, and by what they do whilst on­site. “Pilgrims” and “tourists” alike grope towards some sort of reconcili­ ation with their province’s Catholic past, whether this is expressed by “tourists” as an interest in religious patrimoine or by “pilgrims” as a vestigial, inchoate, even dechirant pull towards the Church. Indeed, the two groups occupy the same space in a way that often feels incon­ gruous. In Figure 7.8, two young female tourists smile for a snapshot in front of the Oratoire’s soaring, majestic dome even as, on the stairs high above them, two elderly pilgrims laboriously and prayerfully progress, step by painful step, on their knees. Pilgrims and tourists alike, then, defend an experiential space, the intimate cellule de voyage, in which a fuller range of emotions and responses to the shrine are possible (from reverent awe to disgusted “ewwws”) than within the bosom of a larger collectivity, no matter how per­ missive. Both pilgrims and tourists defiantly defend their right to encounter the site on their own terms. In keeping with the spiritual motivations expressed by many respondents, this may include individual attempts to communicate with the Catholic pantheon, but typically excludes collective religious participation by more than a small minority.

figure 6.8 A woman poses for a photo in front of the Oratoire. Behind her, pilgrims on their knees scale the steps to the shrine’s main entrance.

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priests The changing dynamics of pilgrimage in Quebec have created both challenges and opportunities for the sanctuaries’ clergy. How are they to bridge the gulf of anomie and suspicion between themselves and their lay visitors? How can they exorcise the ghost of the Quiet Revolution’s bitterness? How should they manage conflicts between liberal and conservative Catholics, struggles in which they themselves are often implicated on one side or the other?

Priests and Outreach Père Grou, the rector of the Oratoire Saint­Joseph, is optimistic that shrine officials can sensitively respond to visitors’ spiritual needs without violating their jealously guarded realm of impro­ visational freedom. Like many of the visitors to his shrine, Grou feels that pre­1960s levels of religious participation in the province were motivated more by social conformity than genuine faith: the mass­going of the past “wasn’t a personal choice, it was something the crowd did.”63 In Grou’s view, la Révolution thus made possible the expression of Catholic faith as a counter­cultural witness by divorcing faith from social status.64 To Grou, the religious land­ scape of contemporary Quebec is anything but a wasteland. Rather, like the burnt­over ground after a raging forest fire, new growth is possible even among the ashes of a vanished world. It is the pas­ toral responsibility of shrine clergy to nurture it by reaching out across the divide that separates them from their sanctuaries’ visi­ tors. But this will only be possible, Grou warns, if priests assidu­ ously demonstrate forbearance, inclusiveness, and respect for their visitors’ autonomy: They have their own devotional practice ... they will come to light a candle, they will come to pray at the tomb of Brother André, they will come to put their hands on the big crucifix we have by the crypt church ... they want to do their own thing, and they want to do it with their friends and family.65

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Grou feels that trying to persuade wary visitors to attend mass is counterproductive. More intimate encounters are called for. Bridging the gap between priestly hosts and their wary guests is the “Blessings Office” (or booth), ubiquitous at every Québécois shrine, which Grou calls this institution a “stepping stone to reach out to the people ... it is unbelievable the importance of that place.”66 Priests are daily “on call” in this spiritual emergency room, where their primary responsibility – like holy Maytag repairmen – is prayerfully to wait until they are called upon by laypeople in need. As the name would suggest, the most frequent clerical intervention requested therein is the blessing of objects, often medals or rosa­ ries, purchased by visitors in shrine gift shops.67 Though sometimes bought simply as souvenirs, quite often these humble, inexpensive objects are destined for ill or troubled loved ones too distant or too disengaged themselves to make the journey. These modest medal disks, impressed with a saintly image, often bear the impossible weight of last chances, representing the final hope of the desperate, the unemployed, or malades who have exhausted all other avenues of recourse – “chemo,” alternative therapies, the surgeon’s knife. At the Blessings Office, a priest’s simple inquiry about the choice of object can trigger a voluble emotional response and elicit requests for prayer or confession. Says Grou: [T]hey take five minutes to talk about what they are going through. They start crying and saying how hard it is for them, everything that is happening. And I think for me this is the first step of evangelization: to show people that we care for them, that they are there when we come to us because they feel in some mysterious way that God can help them in what they are living.68

The Clergy and Pastoral Diversity One of the most visible changes to life at Quebec’s shrines since the 1960s has been the increasing ethnic and linguistic diversity of those who worship there each Sunday.69 Many new Canadians, including a

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large francophone Haitian population, allophone Asians, and anglo­ phone Indian immigrants (including some Hindus) are among the 4,000 people who worship weekly at Oratiore Saint­Joseph. 70 The Oratory also lures dispossessed Catholics whose parish churches have been closed due to low rates of mass attendance. Though instructed as to which new local church they should now frequent, some parishoners “don’t feel a sense of belonging to the new place of worship” see the Oratory as “a natural place to go,”71 as it evokes the same sense of familiarity, nostalgia, and comfort as did their now shuttered church. Some whose parish churches, though still open, are virtually empty, also decamp to the exuberant crowds of multicultural mass­goers at the Oratory, inadvertently exsanguinating the city’s par­ ishes and triggering further rounds of church closures.72 Grou asserts that the spiritual privacy and improvisational space of his shrine are highly attractive to ambivalent Montreal Catholics who, though they long for rapprochement with the Church, are impeded by psychological baggage, negative memories, or intellectual or ethical objections to the Church’s teachings. Though longing for community, such Catholics dread dooming their fledgling spiritual quest to the route march of mere religious obligation. They want to experiment with new ways of being Catholic without the attention lavished on parish newcomers: attention that, while intended to be welcoming, is often internalized as pressure or harassment. At the Oratoire, Grou suggests, things are different: “the person needs space to start coming back. Here, they walk in and no one asks any questions.”73 Not knowing the shrine’s clergy and – more crucially – not being known by them offers lapsed Catholics the prospect of a truly anonymous confession and even the possibility of evading struc­ tural barriers erected to prevent to their sacramental participation. Grou believes that some divorced­and­remarried Catholics who have not received the mandated annulment of their first marriage come to his shrine to receive the Eucharist under the cloak of ano­ nymity. Though the distribution of the sacrament to such persons goes against Church policy, Grou argues that in practice it would be difficult to withhold it. Nor would such a stringent approach, he argues, encourage such prodigals’ greater implication in what is,

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after all, their church. Pope Francis would seem to agree with Grou, given his recent softening of Church policy in The Joy of Love, his apostolic exhortation which eschews a uniform, hard­and­fast posi­ tion in favour of delegating the consideration of individual cases to local authorities. Grou’s goal is thus to foster an open, inclusive community of tol­ erance and respect at Oratoire Saint­Joseph, so that visitors’ positive experiences will counterbalance their perceptions (or actual memo­ ries) of an insular Catholic Church with an aggressively authoritar­ ian clergy. But his tactics have not been embraced by all of those who use his sanctuaire as an ad hoc parish. Catholic conservatives, par­ ticularly young people, have repeatedly confronted Grou over such “gate keeping” issues: pressing for greater separation of the faithful from mere tourists, of Catholics from non­Catholics, and of “good Catholics” from “cheaters.”74 They complain about Grou’s (strategi­ cally) laissez­faire policies regarding visitors’ behaviour, insisting that more be done to protect the genuinely religious, at the shrine to pray and attend mass, from the gawking mass of hoi paloi. Though Grou appeals to the Oratory’s immensity, suggesting that there is “more than enough room for everyone,”75 hardliners advocate the exclusion of all noncelebrants during mass. In so doing, they are asking that the same protective envelope of privacy afforded visitors’ cellule de voyage be accorded their own more traditional, collective form of religious self­expression. Indeed, some conservatives argue that they have more of a right to privacy and respect than do mere “tourists,” given that they perceive themselves as being on the angelic side of the Bible’s wheat­and­tares, sheep­and­goats dyads. Conservative “parishioners’” seeking to exclude nonparticipants from the church during mass are equally vigilant at the communion rail, expressing considerable concern about what they perceive as sac­ ramental laxity onsite. Notes Grou, “they are deadly scared that we will give communion to a non­Catholic”76 or to others who, accord­ ing to the current rules of the Church, are ineligible to receive it. As previously noted, Oratoire Saint­Joseph attracts the highest pro­ portion of non­Catholic visitors of the four sanctuaries under study, drawing a small but significant number of non­Catholics, often Sikhs

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and Hindus, who seek not simply to visit the shrine but also to partic­ ipate in its worship.77 Many Hindus expect inclusion in the Catholic Eucharist, which they see as the correlate of their own tradition’s Prasad: food that is ceremonially presented to the Hindu deities and then “distributed to everybody, Hindus, Christians, it doesn’t mat­ ter.”78 As Grou sees it, the situation is a delicate one: “we have to be reasonably careful not to give Communion to those who don’t know what it is ... but at the same time we cannot judge people accord­ ing to their colour and say, ‘he looks like a Hindu and so I will not give it to him’.”79 Why, he argues, should pious East Indian Catholics be denied the host just because they are visually indistinguishable from their Hindu brethren? Wouldn’t that be punishing them for the unpardonable sin of not being elderly French­Canadians? “Cheating” Québécois Catholics provoke even more disquiet in conservative hearts, being invisible, and thus insidious. How can one tell if the stranger in the adjacent pew or cuing to receive communion is a divorced­and­remarried “cheater” or a “good” Catholic? Though Grou feels that warning off those illegitimately seeking to receive communion would not serve the greater good of the Church, his crit­ ics argue that this ultimate, defining ritual act must remain the exclu­ sive prerogative of Catholics in good standing. Making exceptions, even as an act of pastoral generosity, they see as both a profanation and a weakening of the institution’s moral fibre.80 Shrine clergy thus face many unenviable challenges. They daily confront troubling questions about their beloved institutions’ mission (or in the case of smaller shrines, their very survival). Some priests express concern that, in a misguided effort to remain “relevant,” or in the face of the temptation posed by government funding aimed at enhancing “spiritual tourism” in the province, unholy compromises will be made with mammon, compromises which will ultimately undercut their sanctuaires’ religious authority.81 Even as they seek to thaw relations between themselves and their hundreds of thousands of annual visitors (most of them Québécois Catholics with a demon­ strable reluctance to participate in clerically led ritual) their efforts at inclusive outreach simultaneously face criticism by zealous “parishio­ ners.” Yet, despite these difficulties, shrine officials express a surpris­

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ing degree of optimism about the future of their shrines and of the Catholic Church itself in twenty­first­century Quebec. Deliberately focusing more on what la Révolution has bequeathed than on what it has stolen, they seek to forge new, more individualized, more inti­ mate spiritual relationships with willing shrine visitors rather than trying to replicate past patterns of collective religious participation which have long since waned. If the people visiting these holy sites have changed profoundly, not so much in what they believe but in how and with whom they chose to express their beliefs, their priests have also adapted to the paradoxical and fascinating religious reali­ ties of contemporary Quebec. It is midnight and Quebec’s sanctuaries are long deserted. Only angels patrol their shadowed vaults, frescoed chapels, and abandoned Santa Scala. Rosaries, looped over the handle of an abandoned crutch or hung from the modeled hand of a saint dangle motionless into space, like the suspended legs of a man fishing from a dock. By the tomb of Father Pampalon, a green­globed votive candle gutters its waxy last, and one last streak of verdant light flashes across its black marble like a firework reflected in dark water. The pink tea rose, left like a love letter outside the vault containing Frère André’s heart, gradually begins to wither and brown. And yet these mute marks of pilgrims’ presence are not mere nos­ talgic remnants. They are, like the tokens of a religious Avalon, the promise of once­and­future pilgrims’ eventual return. Though pat­ terns of pilgrimage in the province have indeed changed dramati­ cally since the 1960s, powerful new evidence reveals the continued importance of religious impulses in motivating these journeys, even as the Quiet Revolution’s durable legacy of anticlericalism has led to new, more individualized forms of religious self­expression at the province’s sanctuaires. There, though much is taken, much abides.

7 Muslim Veiling and the Legacy of Laïcité Meena Sharify-Funk and Elysia Guzik

There is no such thing in Quebec as pure wool. Robert Lepage, 2014 LaFontaine­Baldwin Symposium lecture

Lepage’s lecture on belonging points to the problematic nature of the concept of pure laine (“pure wool”), which is often invoked by those claiming to have exclusively French­Canadian ancestry, going back to Nouvelle­France’s original settlers in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. While Quebec’s identity is rooted in a francophone culture distinct from the anglophone majority in the rest of Canada, Lepage reminds us of the diversity within Quebec – even among those who self­identify as pure laine. This concept has been used at least since the latter half of the twentieth and into the twenty­first centuries to justify a stance that many religious minority groups experience as exclusive. Instead of acknowledg­ ing the diversity within Quebec (as Lepage would realize, citing his own family history1), pure laine frames diverse religious influences within Quebec society – including Indiginous spirituality, atheism, Catholicism, Islam, and various other traditions – as inauthentic. From this perspective, the presence of religious difference is denied credibility as a basis for identity formation and regarded as a threat to the maintenance of a cohesive social fabric. The prevalent con­ cern about religious minorities changing the majority Québécois culture hampers engagement with cultural difference and estab­ lishes boundaries to openness of thought.

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Despite official acknowledgement of pluralism in contemporary Quebec, opinion surveys conducted between 2009 and 2015 indi­ cate that up to 74 per cent of Québécois support banning religious symbols in public institutions.2 Public support for the removal of religious head coverings from education, healthcare, and judicial sys­ tems has been further reflected in events including Court of Quebec judge Eliana Marengo’s 2015 refusal to hear a proceeding involving Rania El­Alloul because she wore a hijab. Such strong aversion to head coverings is a matter of grave concern for women who already report discrimination in the job market and whose potential empow­ erment in the workplace significantly depends on an ability to wear modest dress while pursuing activities outside the home. In North America and Europe, the veil, or hijab, has long been regarded as a visible manifestation of essential differences between Western and Islamic values. The following chapter explores contro­ versies surrounding the hijab and niqab, with a focus on Quebec. While the veil is often viewed as a religious symbol that does not necessarily impede integration within Quebec society, public debates about veiling as a challenge to cultural normativity can reinforce defensive reactions from the minority Muslim community. This chapter illustrates some of the ways in which Québécois identity is negotiated through lenses of religious articulation and accommoda­ tion by attending to specific events in Quebec’s history – namely, the Quiet Revolution and subsequent education reforms, the develop­ ment and implementation of an interculturalism policy in response to Canada’s multiculturalism, and the proposed Charter of Values. Contemporary opposition to head coverings – as voiced by public opinion surveys and proposals for discriminatory legislation – is a manifestation of deeper historical patterns within Quebec, patterns which connect ideas of progress and social liberation with the rise of secular education, a decline in religious expressions of material cul­ ture, and rejection of women’s veiling in the public sphere. This chapter, in addition to providing a brief historical framework of late twentieth and early twenty­first­century issues of religious difference in Quebec, asks how identity insecurities are embedded in contemporary attempts to eliminate religious symbols (including

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dress) from public institutions. It also examines some of the ways in which attempts to protect an ideal Québécois identity are rooted in earlier projects to establish a distinct cultural voice apart from the Catholic Church with which it was historically linked. By tracing the roots of opposition to veiling in Quebec and exploring Muslim women’s responses to the dominant framing of the issue, this chapter contextualizes current debates while also countering the prevailing perception of Islamic thought as inherently conservative and static. As they engage current controversies, Québécois Muslim women seek to reposition their decisions and activism within a larger, more global context for thinking about basic rights and freedoms.3

historical context In Quebec, proposed legislation calling for a secular public sphere is inspired by a different set of forces than in France. Situated within the Canadian context of an official multicultural policy yet with its own distinct history of sovereignty efforts, Quebec’s relationship with reli­ gious minorities does not precisely mirror the French experience. These historical differences between France and Quebec have impacted jus­ tifications for banning public sector employees from wearing religious symbols and garments at their institutions. While in France religious clothing such as the hijab is perceived as an oppressive imposition on women who should feel liberated to have the option of wearing less modest clothing, in Quebec women’s veiling in particular is reminis­ cent of nuns’ habits and the Catholic Church with which they are asso­ ciated.4 Ties with the Catholic Church are especially problematic given Quebec’s modern trajectory of limiting the Church’s political power in favour of establishing greater autonomy for Québécois who sought to become “maîtres chez nous.”5 This goal of becoming “masters of our own house” in a country dominated by anglophone Protestants reached a turning point in the late 1960s, when Réné Lévesque led the creation of the Parti Québécois (pq), which championed a separatist mandate. By the time Lévesque was elected premier in 1976, a clear connection had been made between Québécois ethnic identity and the French language.6 Indeed, the French language continued to be used as

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a tool by Lévesque and the Quebec sovereignty movement to elicit sup­ port from citizens who felt diminished in their own country.7 In 1977, the Lévesque government passed Bill 101, effectively legislating French as Quebec’s official language in La charte de la langue française (The Charter of the French Language). Although this legislation empow­ ered Quebec separatists and Québécois who had awaited formal rec­ ognition of their distinct cultural identity, it added pressure for “allo­ phones,” who spoke neither French nor English as a first language, to assimilate into Quebec society.8 Included in this demographic of allophones is the diverse community of Muslim migrants who arrived to Quebec and other parts of Canada in the second half of the twen­ tieth century. The legacy from the French concept of laïcité affects the process of negotiating difference in Quebec. In the 1960s, laïcité offered a benchmark for drawing distinctions between those who maintained a traditional allegiance with the Catholic Church and those who sought a more progressive and inclusive Québécois identity founded upon a shared language and secular state autonomy over public ser­ vices.9 According to the French principle of laïcité, public institutions should be neutral with regard to religion, and citizens should refrain from visibly expressing their religious outlook if it interferes with the public sphere.10 Largely shaped by the French Revolution and the subsequent constitutional separation of church and state, laïcité is widely understood to preserve France’s public education, healthcare, and judicial systems from intervention by religious groups.11 Over the last fifty years, while inspired by laïcité, Quebec has facil­ itated an open secular approach to governing public institutions.12 This more inclusive interpretation of the French model of laïcité – as reflected in policy documents such as the Bouchard­Taylor final report13 – differs in its emphasis on protecting citizens’ rights to free­ dom of conscience and religion and equal access to public services.14 Furthermore, Canadian law currently abstains from invoking laïcité to ensure equality among citizens from all ethnic and religious back­ grounds.15 Historically, rather than focusing on eliminating all visible religious symbols from the public sphere, proposals by Quebec politi­ cians for legislated religious neutrality set up a framework of cultural

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accommodation – that is, a sort of compromise between presumably common values held by so­called pure laine Québécois and the prac­ tices and values enacted and expressed by immigrants. The notion of “reasonable accommodation” is rooted in the Supreme Court of Canada’s 1985 definition, which argues that in order to uphold indi­ viduals’ right to equality, it may occasionally be necessary for pub­ lic or private organizations to introduce “reasonable” modifications to established “norms, practices or legitimate and justifiable policies ... to take into account the particular needs of certain minorities.”16 The proposed Bill 94 (introduced in 2010 by then­minister of justice Kathleen Weil to establish accommodation protocols for public ser­ vice provision), and the earlier Bouchard­Taylor Commission (which followed the publication of Hérouxville, Quebec’s controversial “Life Standards” charter) are contemporary illustrations of this accommo­ dation framework. Proposed legislation that would effectively ban religious symbols from the public sphere is built on the assumption that religious expression should be relegated to domestic settings. When clothing that is interpreted as a visible illustration of religious beliefs crosses the boundary from the home into schools, daycares, hospitals, or the courts, Quebec politicians and the broader public are called to articulate how secularism relates to what it means to be Québécois in a pluralist society. Such controversial legislative pro­ posals reframe issues of Quebec sovereignty and plurality to restrict people from freely expressing their identities, and illuminate ongoing tensions between freedom of religious expression and a public sector informed by the separation of church and state. Despite these different models, given the increasing influence of French civic republican values on Quebec’s approach to secularism, it is worth briefly reflecting on the history of France’s relationship with religious minorities and the residue that remains from its colo­ nial involvement. France’s imperial efforts extended beyond North Africa, but it was in this region that France’s relationship with Islam was arguably the strongest.17 By 1912, France had colonized Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia, and it was not until the early 1960s – follow­ ing civil strife and the Algerian war of independence – that the French began to withdraw.18 In the decades to follow, Muslim migrants to

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France were rarely warmly received, and their systemic unemploy­ ment along with increasingly widespread anticlerical sentiments and Islamophobic political rhetoric only heightened tensions between these groups.19 Certainly, Quebec’s changing demographics have contributed to the current discourse on women’s veiling and other forms of religious expression in the public sphere. Although Bill 101 legally affirmed French as Quebec’s official language – serving to discursively mar­ ginalize the allophone population – it was also during this historical period that Quebec acknowledged its religious and cultural diver­ sity through the Quebec Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms.20 However, by the 1980s, the Quebec government returned to an assim­ ilationist approach rooted in Canada’s history as a Commonwealth member, which focused on upholding Québécois culture and the French language to help integrate ethnic and religious minorities into mainstream Quebec society.21 Eventually, Quebec came to adopt an approach of cultural accommodation in which the state expects ethnic and cultural minorities to pledge primary civic allegiance to Québécois culture, the French language, and liberal democratic val­ ues in exchange for being celebrated for contributing to Quebec’s contemporary diversity.22 In so doing, the Quebec government was able to shift its focus from fostering diversity to providing equal treatment to all individual citizens, regardless of their religious and cultural backgrounds. This shift has allowed the state to sustain a discourse of shared civic rights and responsibilities, and to justify cases of when religious expression threatens this discourse. Since the content of and commentary on Bills 94 and 6023 empha­ sized Islamic religious symbols (in particular, Muslim women’s veils) over symbols from other traditions, it is important to reflect on Muslim immigration in Quebec. Although Muslims were living in Canada before the twentieth century, the Muslim community’s pres­ ence developed in unprecedented numbers during the 1960s and 1970s, as Muslims from Middle Eastern and South Asian countries migrated to metropolitan areas such as Montreal to seek educational opportunities and freedom from political conflict, and to improve their economic status.24 Particularly in Montreal, the Muslim population

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doubled between 1991 and 2001, climbing to a total of 100,200 by the end of that decade.25 This increase in Montreal’s Muslim population followed an influx of migrants across Canada from the Middle East and North Africa, which partly resulted from the implementation of a new immigration policy based on selection factors.26 Despite these growing numbers, the Bouchard­Taylor report’s equation of the hijab with other religious symbols that should not be worn by public sec­ tor workers – instead of acknowledging its cultural normativity as a clothing choice – reflects the tense relationship between Muslims and pure laine Québécois in contemporary Quebec.27 Muslims in Quebec have been on the receiving end of public concern for evoking nega­ tive memories of clerically oriented society and for being associated with increasing numbers of educated North African migrants and their influence on francophone public institutions.28 By drawing upon a rhetoric of equating Islam with unacceptable difference, the separatist movement is able to interpret the presence of “conspicuous” religious symbols in public institutions as an affront to Québécois identity and the values of secularism that were secured through debates and legis­ lation during the 1960s. Closely connected with shifting demographics in Quebec are official policies of multiculturalism and interculturalism. In 1971, under then­prime minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau, Canada estab­ lished its official federal policy of multiculturalism.29 This official policy formally affirmed earlier changes in Canada’s immigra­ tion policies, notably the 1967 decision to adopt a nondiscrimi­ natory points system to support admissions from non­European and non­Christian countries and the related shift away from an assimilationist approach to integration towards a more multicul­ tural one.30 This multicultural approach embraced the presence of diverse ethnic identities and expected the need for public insti­ tutions to accommodate various cultural expressions.31 Although Canada’s multiculturalism policy has been amended since 1971, the central concepts of recognizing and accommodating cultural diver­ sity, removing barriers to full participation, promoting the acqui­ sition of official languages, and promoting cross­cultural dialogue remain as key ideas.32

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The Canadian Multiculturalism Act is not without its critics. Specifically, the Quebec government recognized that the federal pol­ icy was a response to Quebec’s sovereignty movement and rejected how multiculturalism operates within a framework of bilingual­ ism, arguing against the federal policy’s perception of language as a communicative tool separate from the cultural context in which it is situated.33 As an alternative, Quebec developed a model of “cul­ tural convergence” over the 1980s and formalized its intercultur­ alism policy in 1991 following the Canada­Quebec Accord.34 This alternative approach to a pluralist society sets up the expectation that immigrants adopt French as their primary language in the pub­ lic sphere and that they engage in an exchange between their sup­ posedly preserved ethnic and linguistic identities and Quebec’s con­ stantly evolving culture.35 Through its implementation, Quebec’s interculturalism policy has contributed to creating a unique “other” by simultaneously embracing cultural diversity while requiring newcomers to contribute to developing Quebec’s distinct national identity.36

development of secular education in quebec Over the second half of the twentieth century, as French­Canadians rose to economic and political power in Quebec and came to define Québécois identity in linguistic terms rather than religious ones, the Catholic Church’s monopoly on public services diminished.37 For some Quebec citizens who did not wish to return to a religiously oriented society, the proposed Charter of Values (Bill 60, introduced in May 2013) presented a convincing argument against the inclusion of reli­ gious symbols in public institutions. As one supporter of Bill 60, Claire Rochette, explained in response to her attendance at public hearings on the proposed Charter of Values, “Bill 60] is essential for the sur­ vival of the Québécois. Our ancestors have fought to survive for 400 years. We suffered enough from the Catholic Church. We don’t want any religion to dominate us again.”38 In other words, accommodations made to wear “conspicuous” religious symbols in the public sphere uncomfortably evoked “something all too familiar.”39

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A significant part of the period of sociopolitical changes that came to be referred to as the “Quiet Revolution” was a new approach to Quebec’s public education system. As Bob Chodos points out, a critical element of the Lesage government’s educational reform was Bill 60 (also known as the “Great Charter of Education”), which was introduced in 1963, amended and passed in 1964, and invoked in the proposed Charter of Values fifty years later.40 Prior to Bill 60, Quebec’s schools were divided into Catholic and Protestant denomi­ national sectors. While the Catholic sector included nearly all public French­language schools and a smaller number of English­language schools, the Protestant sector oversaw the majority of English­ language schools in Quebec, including the Jewish community.41 Following recommendations from the Parent Report on school leg­ islation concerning the private and public sectors, Bill 60 established the provincial Department of Education, which was a critical step towards a broader mandate of education reform intended to separate Quebec schools from religious oversight.42 Although the denomina­ tional system was not abolished until 1999 when it was replaced with language­based school boards, Bill 60 transferred much of the Church’s established power over education to the state.43 Notably, this initial step in educational reform contributed to the broader trend towards a secular Quebec.44 Certainly, the mirroring of Bill 60 in the Charter of Values was not a coincidence. Both Bills 60 (respectively, from 1963 and 2013) aimed to eliminate religious symbols from the public sphere – whether it was through unifying the education system under a secu­ lar department of the state or banning religious symbols from pub­ lic institutions altogether. Taken together, these laws reflect a fear of the religious other; the main difference is who stands in for this “other” – the Catholic Church or veiled Muslim women. While the Lesage government’s bill weakened the Church’s presence in public education, the proposed Charter of Values defined Quebec values based on a culturally exclusive and intolerant vision of Québécois identity, thus restricting any public religious expression that does not reflect similar aspirations towards a distinct francophone soci­ ety.45 In this light, the Parent Report’s recommendations acted as a

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precedent for future laws regarding religious expression in the pub­ lic sphere in terms of the law and Québécois social norms. More specifically, the Parent Report asserted that the educational system should be democratized through a greater investment in public edu­ cation, providing citizens with equal access to education, human rights, individual autonomy, and freedom from religious indoctri­ nation.46 By affirming secular liberal values of equality and freedom of conscience, the Parent Report set an example for how legislation and Quebec society should collaboratively respond to pluralism in the years to follow. Over the last two decades, legal cases and public debates have presented different perspectives on the place of religion in Quebec’s public institutions – particularly in its schools. These contestations over Quebec citizens’ rights to materially express their religious affil­ iations and beliefs in the public sector have had a subsequent impact on the private sphere. With regard to the Muslim community, wear­ ing the hijab, debates about reasonable accommodation, and public schools teaching Arabic have been especially important.47 In the fall of 1988, École Henri­Beaulieu sparked an initial public debate about teaching heritage languages in Quebec public schools.48 Despite the presence of a predominantly francophone Arabic­speaking commu­ nity in the suburb in which École Henri­Beaulieu was located and the fact that the school board had offered Chinese and Southeast Asian language courses through the pelo program without previous conflict, the parents’ school committee declined to offer Arabic lan­ guage lessons. Opponents to teaching Arabic at École Henri­Beaulieu framed their argument around fears of stereotypical Muslims impos­ ing undemocratic values on the rest of the neighbourhood, claiming that such courses would contribute to the growing Arab population in the community.49 Eventually, the school board made a diplo­ matic compromise and implemented Arabic language courses as a pilot program to be reviewed at the end of the first year, and Arabic­ speaking parents from the neighbourhood ensured their participa­ tion in decision­making through elections to the school committee.50 While this debate highlighted problematic attitudes towards Muslims in Quebec, it also affirmed how Quebec’s legislative framework and

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education system has the potential to protect individuals’ rights to freely express their cultural identities. In 1994, controversy over cultural identity expression rose again when the Commission Québécoise des droits de la personne et des droits de la jeunesse decided to allow a young student to wear her hijab at a uniformed public school.51 Although this allowance reflected support for religious freedoms, the conflict it provoked cat­ alyzed a public discourse that equates Islam with a violent, oppres­ sive, and misogynistic threat to democratic values.52 Another debate about the rights of public school students in Quebec to visually and materially express their religious selves occurred in 2002 when the Supreme Court of Canada overturned a restriction imposed by the Commission scolaire Marguerite­Bourgeoys upon student Gurbaj Singh Multani regarding his choice to wear his kirpan to school.53 While the school board viewed the kirpan as a weapon, Multani was eventually permitted to carry his kirpan under certain conditions since the Supreme Court recognized the Sikh community’s consider­ ation of the object as a religious symbol.54 As the Church’s control over public institutions diminished in the 1960s, the presence of nuns providing social, healthcare, and educa­ tion services while wearing traditional habits and veils also waned. Decades later, controversies over Muslim women’s veiling are often grounded in rhetoric about threats to Quebec’s secular society and autonomous public education system. The religious expression of the veil – whether Christian or Muslim – evokes past fears of and strug­ gles against religious authority, especially for Québécois who lived through the Quiet Revolution. Although Bill 60 died on the order paper in the spring of 2014, the ideas it advocated about religious expression in Quebec schools and other public institutions have impacted the public sphere in contemporary Quebec. The last seven years have been witness to multiple reported incidents and anecdotes of hijabi girls being excluded from sporting events and of veiled Muslim women harassed and attacked in their neighbourhoods and at shopping malls.55 As the cases cited above demonstrate, public controversy in Quebec surrounding Muslim head coverings dates not to the post­September 11

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era but rather to the 1990s; Quebec­based incidents associated with the expulsion of girls from school for wearing headscarves followed a pat­ tern similar to previous events in France. In France and Quebec (as well as in Great Britain), discussions of the hijab and niqab have generated considerable political controversy, and have often reinforced polariza­ tion between secular (“assimilated”) Muslims and their more cultur­ ally conservative counterparts, while marginalizing efforts to address more substantive issues such as domestic violence and engagement in the public sphere. Paradoxically, efforts to “help” Muslim women by banning women’s head­coverings in schools (France) and sports competitions (Quebec) have increased barriers to participation in public life. A series of provincial and federal events have under­ scored and exacerbated deeper questions concerning the security of Québécois identity, making this debate especially charged in the early twenty­first­century. These legal cases and debates have not only affected students’ access to heritage language classes and the right to express their reli­ gious identities but have also raised issues about religious neutrality among teachers and in Quebec’s curriculum. Even after the denom­ inational school system was replaced, parents were given options in religious education for their children in elementary and second­ ary schools – namely “Catholic Religious and Moral Instruction, Protestant Moral and Religious Education, non­religious Moral Education, or exemption from any religious or moral instruc­ tion.”56 It was not until July 2008 that these religious education options were replaced by the implementation of the compulsory Ethics and Religious Culture (erc) program, which aims to “respect the freedom of conscience and religion of all citizens.”57 During the 2008 hearings on religious accommodation, the Bouchard­Taylor Commission – drawing upon the 2007 Advisory Committee on Integration and Reasonable Accommodation in the Schools report – argued that teachers’ religious neutrality is essential.58 While rec­ ognizing that neutrality is a challenge facing all educators – regard­ less of their religious affiliation or lack thereof and whether they choose to visibly express this identity – the commission recom­ mended that all public sector workers in authority positions refrain

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from wearing religious garments.59 The recommendations set out in the Bouchard­Taylor report were later mirrored in Bill 60, which asserted that employees of public institutions have a duty while performing their professional responsibilities to: Remain neutral and exercise reserve in religious matters by, among other things, complying with the restriction on wearing religious objects that overtly indicate a religious affiliation. As well, personnel members of a public body must exercise their functions with their face uncovered, and persons to whom they provide services must also have their face uncovered when receiv­ ing such services.60 Thus, the Charter of Values suggested that the obligation of religious neutrality applies not only to teachers but also to all public sector workers and those who receive public services.

slippery slope of islamophobia in twenty­ first­century quebec: fear of the muslim veil? Some scholars have described the controversial cases connected to Muslim women in Quebec as a “slippery slope.”61 Each case adds to a growing sense of public concern, making subsequent controversies more likely. Cumulatively, these cases – a strong majority of which centre around the politics of Muslim veiling – contribute to a grow­ ing atmosphere of Islamophobia in which visible symbols of Islamic identity induce public anxiety. In 2005–06, controversy about the veil entered into the arena of youth sports when Asmahan Mansour was expelled from a soc­ cer tournament in Laval, Quebec, for refusing to remove her head scarf. Though the veil in question was designed for sport use, Jean Charest (the former premier of Quebec) condoned the expulsion. Soon afterwards, five Muslim girls were prevented from participat­ ing in a Montreal Tae Kwon Do competition due to similar headgear, designed to conform with Islamic expectations concerning modesty without interfering with vision or creating safety issues.

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On 25 January 2007, public discourse articulating anxiety about Islam reached a new level when the town council of Hérouxville, Quebec (a small Quebec town of 1,300 persons) adopted a “code of conduct” for prospective new immigrants. In this “Life Standards” Charter prospective new immigrants were officially declared unwel­ come if they exhibited an inclination toward any of the following practices: publicly stoning women, burning women alive, throwing acid on the faces of women, female circumcision, covering the face, school prayer, and wearing a symbolic weapon to school. The charter also informed prospective immigrants that they must reaffirm certain fundamental rights, such as a woman’s right to drive a vehicle, vote, sign cheques, dance, and “decide for herself.”62 Although the Bouchard­Taylor Commission served to dampen debate about minority communities for a time, subsequent events have reignited and perpetuated the debate in largely unchanged terms. In November 2009 there was the story of Naema Ahmed, an Egyptian migrant who was asked to leave her French class in Montreal when she refused to remove her niqab and who was later expelled a second time after enrolling in another school. In April 2010 this was fol­ lowed by a similar story about another niqabi woman. These events ignited a polarizing debate about head coverings; Chantal Hébert maintains that Quebec’s French media played a decisive role in shap­ ing and fuelling this debate.63 On one side of the debate, many argued that in demanding a right to wear the niqab, largely depicted as a symbol of oppression, Muslims had gone too far and that the gov­ ernment was right to put an end to accommodation demands. This position resonated strongly, and most Québécois appeared to sup­ port it. On the other side, however, critics pointed out problems with focusing too narrowly on the practice of a small minority of Muslim women and argued that prohibiting niqabi women from accessing public services would only serve to isolate them and enforce a retreat from the public sphere, making integration more difficult. Critics were also concerned that the wave of popular sentiment against the public comportment of a very small minority of Muslim women was but a symptom of deeper discomfort with Muslim immigration and distinctiveness. They feared that curtailing the rights of the most

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conservative Muslim women might soon lead to additional mea­ sures against more mainstream, publicly and professionally engaged women who chose to wear a veil. The prevalence of antiniqab public sentiment provided a favour­ able environment for legislative action and resulted in Bill 94 – the first piece of legislation on minority accommodation issues since the completion of the Bouchard­Taylor Commission’s inquiry. Minister of Justice Madame Kathleen Weil introduced Bill 94 to the National Assembly of Quebec on 24 March 2010 as a piece of legislation designed to “establish the conditions under which an accommodation may be made in favour of personnel members of the Administration or certain institutions or in favour of person to whom services are provided by the Administration or certain institutions.”64 The stated purpose of this bill was to clarify standard practices associated with the provision of public services, to establish face veiling as a contraven­ tion of these general practices, and to stipulate the grounds on which requests for exemption from this ruling might be denied. The princi­ pled grounds for rejecting all forms of face covering is presented in section 4 of the bill, which cites Quebec’s Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms “as concerns the right to gender equality and the prin­ ciple of religious neutrality of the State whereby the State shows nei­ ther favour nor disfavour towards any particular religion or belief.”65 The pragmatic basis for the new ruling is provided in section 6, which contains both the clause stating that individuals must “show their face during the delivery of services” and the ruling that mandates a denial of accommodation requests when considerations of “security, commu­ nication or identification warrant it.”66 If passed, Bill 94 would require that all employees of the government and public services show their face at all times and that all people making use of government or pub­ lic services (including users of public and some private schools, health care services, social services, and childcare services) would similarly be expected to have uncovered faces at the time of service delivery. Although the principal targets of the legislation are not mentioned in the text of the bill, the legislation is generally understood to be aimed at Muslim women who wear the niqab (full face veil) and would essen­ tially prohibit niqabi women from accessing public services.

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In the Parti Québécois government’s Secular Charter of Values (Bill 60, November 2013), values of religious neutrality, gender equality, and state secularism are upheld and said to provide a “framework for accommodation requests.” Following in the parameters of Bill 94, this piece of legislation specifically states, “in the exercise of their func­ tions, personnel members of public bodies must not wear objects such as headgear, clothing, jewellery, or other adornments which, by their conspicuous nature, overtly indicate a religious affiliation.”67 This pro­ posed legislation again ignited substantial debate, particularly insofar as it would prohibit individuals wearing religious headgear (includ­ ing Jews and Sikhs as well as Muslim women) from working in such mainstream occupations as teachers, daycare professionals, nurses, or doctors, so long as their employer was publicly funded. Though initially popular, controversies surrounding Bill 60 ultimately stymied its implementation and contributed somewhat to the Parti Québécois’ electoral defeat in 2014. However, with the assassinations at Charlie Hebdo in January 2015, a new campaign to revive the secular charter has been ignited.68 Additionally, as Charles Taylor remarked in a cbc interview, Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s comments about banning the niqab during Canadian citizenship ceremonies play into the Parti Québécois’s implementation of the secular values charter.69 Throughout these cases there is an insistence on defining limits to difference in which relaxed norms and sensibilities concerning cultural and religious diversity are being challenged. While the veil and niqab have not been the sole symbols of unacceptable difference – indeed, “oversized” crosses and Jewish kippahs have also figured into public debates – Muslim women’s head coverings are at the heart of the ongo­ ing controversy and arouse the most consistent and vocal concern. The debates raised basic questions about the nature of secularism and its relation to freedom of religion and religious expression.

freedom of religion and religious expression in the public sphere Quebec’s recent controversial cases involve not just a politics of cultural authenticity concerning what is or is not compatible with

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Québécois identity but also a debate about the basic meaning of sec­ ularism. Many questions have come to the fore of informed discus­ sion: Is secularism intended to limit the role of religion in the public sphere or to protect religious diversity from state encroachment? Is freedom of religion an inherent aspect of secularism or does secu­ larism serve to relegate religion to the home? Is disallowing certain forms of religious expressions permissible in a democratic system or is it an undemocratic violation of basic human rights? Undeniably, controversies surrounding religious expression in Quebec have revealed assumptions about secularism that differ from those of anglophone Canada and that reflect both the influence of the French model and of Quebec’s own unique history. Secularism in Quebec reflects the legacy of the Quiet Revolution and manifests a tendency to compartmentalize religion, to which Mossière, Meintel, and Parent and Charron also allude in their respective chapters in this volume. While many contemporary forms of Christianity privat­ ize religious belief and expression in ways that are compatible with this secular culture, forms of religious expression brought by recent immigrants have highlighted limitations inherent in a Christian­ secular compromise that keeps a large crucifix prominently displayed in the National Assembly while problematizing personal forms of religious expression that are deemed ostentatious and inimical to a more homogeneous public sphere. The notion that religious­secular relations require ongoing com­ promise on some forms of religious expression is clearly evident in the Bouchard­Taylor’s final report as well as in Bill 94 and Bill 60. For instance, Bouchard and Taylor held firm in their conviction that open secularism requires a religiously neutral state and that this neutrality necessarily includes proscriptions on religious attire. In this regard, they recommended that public servants in positions of authority (particularly judges and police officers) be prohibited from wearing religious clothing. This recommendation is based on their belief that, as representatives of the state, these individuals must remain and appear neutral in their dealings with the public. After a discussion of why they think it misguided to summarily prohibit all public servants from wearing religious symbols, based

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on the argument that there is no reason to think a person wear­ ing religious signs would be less likely to display impartiality, pro­ fessionalism, and loyalty to their institution than someone who is not displaying such a sign, they conclude that individuals in certain positions, those that “embody the state and its neutrality,” be pro­ hibited from wearing religious symbols. This is especially true in the case of judges, as the right to a fair trial is a guaranteed legal right of all citizens. There are many observers of contemporary controversies who consider Bouchard­Taylor recommendations concerning religious expression in the public sphere damaging. The following statements by representatives of Muslim advocacy organizations70 based in Montreal, which had submitted official briefs to the Commission in 2007 and responded to its conclusions in 2009 are very illustrative: The Bouchard­Taylor Report contains recommendations – that is, it has no power of coercion to change things. The proof is that, since the report appeared, things have got worse for Muslims ... It is a shame because a few years ago a veiled woman could walk around in the streets of Montreal without fear. Today, she would do it burdened by suspicious looks, if not by acts of violence (being bullied or insulted). The worst is that she won’t dare lodge a complaint because she expects that there would be no follow­up. (Anonymous member of Muslim Women of Quebec)71 [N]ever forget that the whole symbol, the whole symbolic aspect of the hijab. Like that never goes away and I don’t know how it’s going to go away actually. We’re getting this sinking feeling that the only compromise that will satisfy the majority of people is if the Muslim women agree to take off their hijabs. I think that’s ultimately what the goal is for most people when you talk to them about this question. And even other women, other fem­ inists, religious feminists. (Leila Bedeir from Muslim Presence Montreal)72

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Despite Bouchard and Taylor’s efforts to dispel certain prejudices against women who wear hijab, their choice to equate the hijab with other religious symbols (rather than treat it as a form of culturally normative dress) that ought not to be worn by certain public ser­ vants played into currents of thought in Quebec that draw upon the legacy of French laïcité. Their report’s support for banning religious symbols worn by judges and police officers was used by anti­Muslim voices as a basis for legitimizing discrimination against “backward” or “oppressed” hijab­wearing women – that is, for broader efforts to stigmatize the hijab in all contexts and not just the target of Bill 94, the fullface niqab. If Bill 94 was antiniqab and focused only on the most conserva­ tive attire, Bill 60, the Secular Charter of Values, had much more sweeping implications for rights to religious and cultural expression. By categorizing the hijab with other forms of religious clothing and display, Bill 60 would enforce the prohibition of any type of Muslim veiling in any place of public employment. A large number of Muslim women would be forced to choose between fidelity to their religious culture and employment by the public sector.

discourse of women’s rights, gender equality, and secularism At the core of controversies over the veiling practices of many Muslim women were differing priorities concerning individual rights and col­ lective rights, as well as different conceptions of freedom and “protec­ tion.” For protagonists of Bill 94 and Bill 60, individual rights clearly trumped collective rights to cultural and religious expression, and reas­ sertion of secular principles has been understood to be the key to wom­ en’s freedom and protection. Within the Quebec Muslim community, however, this stark opposition between individual rights and collective rights holds less validity, insofar as a shared religious culture provides a context that gives meaning to individual freedom as well as to safety. How could individuals be truly free if denied opportunities to act on their religious conscience? Would women’s rights truly be advanced if Muslim women were not allowed to practise traditional forms

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of veiling? The latter arguments have achieved little traction among assertive secularists, who regard such culturally relative approaches to women’s rights as a miscarriage of multiculturalism that invites fundamentalism and grants legitimacy to patriarchal authority. Thus, headscarves as well as fullface veils are not merely cosmetic issues but rather symbols of vitally important differences with clear implications for defining the current meaning of feminism. Supporters of Bill 94 and Bill 60 readily deploy feminism in somewhat novel ways, vis­à­vis a cultural “other.” Whereas traditional feminism was frequently regarded as a subversive challenge to the under­representation of women in the public life of a majority culture, feminist claims to gender equality are now being deployed in a new context to reinforce fundamental distinc­ tions between “us” and “them.” Problematically, the cultural and identity politics associated with veiling often obscure that feminists are also to be found among members of the Muslim minority community. For Muslim feminists, the resources for women’s advancement are not to be found exclu­ sively within Western sources, and women’s emancipation is an issue that is inseparably linked to Islamic reform and the liberalization of Muslim culture. Such advancement cannot be achieved, however, through external imposition, which may well set back efforts at internal reform by cutting off dialogue, stigmatizing religious value systems, and making it more difficult for women from conservative backgrounds to access employment and engage the broader sphere of public life in ways that do not force a choice between authenticity and participation. In their final report, Bouchard and Taylor noted that Muslims overwhelmingly support key Quebec feminist values, including gender equality and secularism, and wish to integrate into Quebec society. The authors also echoed Muslim concerns about access to employment, noting that Muslim women, especially those who wear the hijab, are among the hardest hit in terms of discrimination in the labour market. These anxieties were reflected by Samaa Elibyari of the Canadian Council of Muslim Women (ccmw) who recorded and presented testimonials from Muslim women in Quebec who had been discriminated in the workforce to the Bouchard­Taylor

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Commission. A year after the commission’s final report, Elibyari stated the following: You know, they can make recommendations till tomorrow ... But tell me, is this going to help us? No. In fact, this had a negative impact ... a direct negative impact. I’m going to cite for you, they said, “Women can wear the hijab in certain professions, but in a profession where a women would exercise judgment, or have authority, then she must not be religious.” Like a policeman ... I work with the police, I’m in a committee [because] ... they needed some kind of rapprochement with the Muslim community. They were meeting us and we were talking about several questions of interest to the community. So before the Bouchard­Taylor committee I asked them, “Would you allow a woman wearing the hijab to be a part of the police?” This question was so problematic they had to raise it to the lawyers. And they couldn’t reach an answer because it was too controversial. And after the Commission, they didn’t still issue an answer but this recommendation of the Bouchard­Taylor Commission strengthened the feeling that ... no, the Bouchard­ Taylor Commission said no.73 Elibyari’s statement elucidates how certain recommendations con­ cerning potent symbolic issues – particularly prohibiting judges and police officers from wearing religious clothing and symbols – proved highly debilitating before and after the Bouchard­Taylor Commission’s report. As a result, Elibyari in 2009 predicted that the negative reper­ cussions, and ultimately discrimination, of such recommendations concerning religious expression would result in Muslim women hav­ ing no opportunities for “the best Quebec jobs, most secure jobs,” such as government jobs and employment as nurses, doctors, pharmacists, and teachers. It is interesting that Elibyari’s predications would later be mirrored in the policies of Bill 94 and Bill 60. Discussions of feminism and women’s rights were not, however, completely subordinated by identity politics. One of the outcomes of the Bouchard­Taylor Commission’s report, as referenced by several

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Muslim activists, was the critical response by the oldest feminist move­ ment in Quebec, the Fédération des Femmes du Quebec (Federation of Quebec Women or fqw). Mohamed Kamel, former board member of the Canadian Muslim Forum, reflects on the significance of the fqw’s new position, It was the first time that the feminist movement recognized that the hijab is a right. You have the right not to wear it and you have the right to wear it. If we speak about Muslim women being oppressed by forcing them to wear the hijab, “so we have to help them remove it.” By forcing them to remove it, that is oppression. And for the first time, the Federation des Femmes du Quebec recognized this, and it was a big debate in the organization ... But they reached the conclusion that they support the right of Muslim women to put on the hijab. And [this decision] became a problem for the Ministry of the Statute of Women ... and one of the recommendations from [this Ministry] is to ban the hijab in every public association ... So the feminist movement recog­ nized the right, and this is, for me – I am not a woman but I can consider it – and that’s what I heard from many women with us, that it is real feminism.74 There is no doubt that two different types of feminism have become prominent within twenty­first­century Quebec. On the one hand, there are “hijab­out” policies, such as Bill 94 and Bill 60, that are promoted by particular “state feminists.” On the other, there is the fqw’s position of “hijab­in,” taken by a variety of Canadian fem­ inist and women’s organizations. These different emerging feminisms can be seen in the report, Bill 60: A Feminist Response, published and promoted by the Simone de Beauvoir Institute, which is asso­ ciated with the oldest women’s studies program in Canada based at Concordia University in Montreal. In this report, feminist educators, researchers, and students in Quebec from Muslim and non­Muslim identities opposed Bill 60 claiming that it “will restrict rather than enhance the rights of women.”75 They outline five distinct reasons to not implement Bill

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60: (1) Bill 60 wrongly affirms that secularism will result in equality between men and women; (2) Bill 60 wrongly equates the veil with oppression of women; (3) Bill 60 dictates beyond what is stipulated in law what people and particularly women can wear or not wear; (4) Bill 60 will have implications on the lives of women who are already marginalized; and (5) Bill 60 will have negative consequences on the academic world and particularly the Simone de Beauvoir Institute. The institute’s response to Bill 60 portrays Quebec as a place where a plurality of feminisms can coexist and learn from one another. The authors state that Bill 60 is based on the fallacy of a monolithic, univocal “state feminism” that, if enforced rigorously, will guarantee equality between men and women.76 In effect, the state has been seeking to advance a singular, preferred brand of lib­ eral feminism at the expense of other feminisms, allowing for only one understanding of the causes of women’s oppression (i.e., certain religious practices). They go on to manifest particular concern for the impact the bill will have on veiled Muslim women in Quebec. Against stereotypes, they argue that just as there is not one singu­ lar, monolithic experience of Islam in Quebec, so, too, does wearing the veil have multiple meanings. Thinking of the veil in purely reli­ gious terms or equating it with the oppression of women is reduc­ tive and ignores the historically multiple expressions and experiences of Muslims. Additionally, Bill 60 will not reverse patriarchal ide­ ologies or foster a more unified Quebec. Rather, it pits Québécois against one another and leads to more xenophobia, Islamophobia, racism, and isolationism. It will perpetuate discrimination against a subpopulation of Quebec women and worsen their economic and social situations. Equality of women depends on economic auton­ omy not dress, and this depends on employment and access to social programs and healthcare. To achieve gender equality, protagonists of women’s advancement should embrace different priorities, such as asking government to take actions to reduce poverty and violence against women and to improve women’s health and access to educa­ tion and employment. Rather than further marginalize and increase the isolation of some Muslim women by restricting access to public spaces, feminists should support women’s freedom to wear what they

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want and should be more worried about those who seek to control women’s bodies than about women’s attire. Bill 60’s regressive signif­ icance becomes clear, the authors of the Institute’s response suggest, when one considers the extraordinarily broad range of job categories from which veiled women would be barred (as judges or as work­ ers in municipal courts, childcare centres, government offices, school boards, health and social service agencies, etc.). The controversy in February 2015 over Rania El­Alloul’s decision to wear a hijab high­ lights the ongoing discrimination of veiled women who receive pub­ lic services, including the court system. Significantly, the authors of the Simone de Beauvoir Institute’s response to Bill 60 point out that women’s rights are poorly served by the coercive agendas of religious and secular regimes alike. Indeed, laws imposed by religiously fundamentalist political regimes to enforce veiling and laws promulgated by secular states seeking to ban the veil are two sides of the same coin.77 They warn that Bill 60 plays into the hands of fundamentalists by subjecting veil­wearing women to economic suffocation and forcing them back into their homes. The situation is worse for niqab wearing women as they would not only lose access to employment but also to education, healthcare, and social programs. Section 5 of the bill would also affect the academic community by prohibiting personnel from wearing “conspicuous” religious symbols – a ruling that would seem contrary to principles of academic freedom.

conclusions Debates over Muslim veiling in Quebec provide fascinating oppor­ tunities to explore identity contestations in a setting where major­ ity and minority populations experience identity insecurity. Even as members of the Québécois community construct identity vis­à­vis the Canadian anglophone majority and new migrant populations, minority communities – especially visibly observant Muslims – face the daunting task of attaining membership within a new “we” with­ out severing a sense of authenticity and lived connection to their com­ munities of origin. The fact that Islam has become a new “they” for

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many in the dominant culture makes the challenge of belonging all the more difficult. This burden of carrying the majority culture’s pro­ jections – both those of distant, culturally alien “other” and those of a now devalued past “self” – complicates efforts to integrate socially and to engage in civic discourse about shared values. By presenting the intersections of secular education, material culture, and religious expression in Quebec, this chapter has offered a chance to reflect on how Québécois identity is negotiated in concert with Québécois Muslim women who strive for belonging in a dominant francophone society and within a global context characterized by the dynamic movement of ideas and beliefs. The identity insecurities of the majority and minority populations in this study are considerable. For members of the Québécois major­ ity culture, the goal of projecting a distinct and coherent francophone culture has typically been understood to require a significant degree of internal conformity and cohesion. Prior to the Quiet Revolution this conformity and cohesion was defined largely by Catholicism and the influence of the Catholic Church, whereas after the Quiet Revolution the centre of cohesion shifted toward a common secularity, largely free of public religious expression and yet bounded by a shared linguistic experience. This latter basis for identity and cohesion, however, cannot easily be harmonized with the religious identities and forms of expres­ sion of many new immigrants, particularly Muslims, whose norms vis­ ibly contradict the expectations of the majority culture and evoke past experiences that are no longer valued. While it is critical for those who advocate for Muslim women in Quebec to understand the deeper social transformations behind present attitudes, protagonists of a distinct majority culture need to recognize that much of the proposed legislation intended to protect this culture is likely only to reinforce divisions. From the banning of prospective niqabi migrants to Hérouxville, to the Bouchard­Taylor recommendation of banning all forms of the veil in specific public offices, to Bill 94’s antiniqab legislation which states that all employ­ ees of the government and public services show their face at all times, and Bill 60 (Secular Charter of Values)’s expectation that all people making use of government or public services (including users of pub­

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lic and some private schools, health care services, social services, and childcare services) should have uncovered faces at the time of service delivery, these proposed laws would enforce the prohibition of any type of Muslim veiling in any place of public employment or service provision. But is there a way out of the impasse created by this clash of identities? Can dialogue about a shared Québécois identity extend beyond the official inquiry led by the Bouchard­Taylor Commission? Despite the discouraging trends observed by those who perceive a “slippery slope” inclining away from minority culture accommoda­ tion, much scope for dialogue still exists, particularly to the extent that minority culture advocacy can find ways to embrace what can be framed as positive or legitimate in the majority culture’s discourse, particularly the need for a vibrant Québécois identity and the value of women’s and human rights. By embracing such themes, activists might yet have an impact on shaping a new story that moves beyond past narratives – for example, by affirming that the Québécois peo­ ple need not compromise gains from the Quiet Revolution and need not feel threatened by the need of socially engaged and personally dynamic Muslim women to maintain their own cultural and reli­ gious authenticity. Rather than a new authoritative study document, Quebec arguably needs a new conversation about how to jointly con­ tribute to a new narrative in which religious diversity is a defining characteristic of contemporary Quebec and in which women’s veiling can be viewed a valid cultural and religious choice that need not sig­ nal oppression and subordination.

Section Three New Frontiers and the Beyond

8 Individualized Religion and Sociality among Montreal Spiritualists Deirdre Meintel In this chapter I present a spiritualist congregation in Montreal that I have followed for over a decade, the Spiritual Church of Healing (hereafter, sch).1 In many ways, as we shall see, the mem­ bers of this group exemplify new forms of religious belonging, sociability, and practice that can be found in various contemporary religious currents in Quebec, especially those that attract native­ born, French­speakers of Catholic background (i.e., majority “old­ stock” Québécois).2 Spiritualism became established in Montreal in the context of the Quiet Revolution; in certain regards, those who frequent the sch exemplify some of the specifically Québécois dimensions of religious modernity that has evolved since then in the province. The analysis presented in this chapter is based on my individual research on the sch as well as team research I have directed since 2007 on religious currents in the province that have developed since the 1960s.3 I will look at how Montreal spiritualists exemplify trends that have been observed in other parts of North America, Western Europe, and elsewhere. Most important among those to be found is the individualization of religion that has been observed in vari­ ous national contexts.4 Along with this, we note a number of other patterns, including a generalized dichotomy between “religion” and “spirituality,” circulation among different religious currents (usually without formal conversion), hybrid spiritual practices, and eclectic beliefs. These same trends can be found much more broadly among various groups that attract French­speaking Québécois and have

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been observed by researchers elsewhere, notably Meredith McGuire5 in the US. The centrality of healing and embodied experience char­ acterizes not only spiritualists but many others as well and is often taken as an indicator of religious authenticity, a theme that I will develop further in the chapter.6 Besides the trends they exemplify that are common to many other religions in Quebec and beyond, spiritualists also give evidence of elements that are particular to Quebec and derive from the social history of the province; for example, what I call the Catholic sub­ strate evident in their beliefs and practices. And while the dichotomy between religion and spirituality that one finds among Montreal spir­ itualists is true of many today, I will show that the semantic content of the term “spiritual but not religious” is not necessarily the same in Quebec as elsewhere. The six spiritualist groups in Montreal that I have observed are relatively small (the sch has some 260 members currently, with an electronic mailing list of 365). However, their influence is greater than their numbers would convey. As I will show, many nonmem­ bers frequent their activities and have recourse to them for services such as naming ceremonies,7 marriages, clairvoyance, and, at least in the case of the sch, exorcism of individuals and houses. Thus, I will argue, spiritualist beliefs and practices have a much wider resonance in the apparently secular urban environment of Montreal In summary, in what follows I will situate what I have found at the sch in relation to more general trends in contemporary religion, in regard to the religious specificity of francophone Quebec, and, finally, in relation to the urban context in which this church is situated. Then I will take a closer look at the twin themes of religious individualiza­ tion and sociality, and how these play out among members of the sch and in the congregation as a whole. In particular, I will look at how individualization of religion and the concern for authenticity of the personal, embodied kind affect religious commitment and the exer­ cise of religious authority and religious sociality in this congregation over the long term.

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spiritualism in montreal The religion known as spiritualism came into being in a religious cli­ mate where transcendentalism and Swedenborgianism were gaining influence.8 Its modern beginnings are traced to two sisters, Margaret and Kate Fox, who were living on a farm in Hydesville, New York. The girls established contact with the spirit of a dead man whose bones were eventually discovered in the basement of their house.9 The movement that developed around the Fox sisters spread across the United States and across the Atlantic to France, England, and points beyond, influencing French Kardecism, Vietnamese Caodaism, and other religious movements. In sociological terms, spiritualism corresponds to Stark and Bainbridge’s concept of the cult as an innovative religious group that creates a new “religious culture”10 where beliefs and practices, as well as the social structure of the group, differ from those of lon­ ger­established Christian religions. The British sociologist Geoffrey Nelson, who considers himself a spiritualist,11 terms spiritualism a “spontaneous cult,” i.e., an innovative religious movement character­ ized by diffuse authority.12 Cults are characterized by vague boundar­ ies, labile belief systems, and rapid membership turnover;13 these are all true of spiritualism as I have observed it in Montreal. However, I should add that spiritualist ministers in Montreal reject the label “cult,” associating it with negative media images of sectarian reli­ gious movements. The arrival of spiritualism in Montreal in 1960 coincided with Quebec’s Quiet Revolution (la Révolution tranquille). During this period, the state took over the social welfare, educational, and health systems that had long been the fief of the Catholic Church. Meanwhile the religious practice of the Catholic faithful was declin­ ing rapidly,14 and the ranks of the clergy and other religious devotees were depleted. As the political system became liberalized, Quebec society became thoroughly secularized and far more open to reli­ gious diversity.15 At the same time, new migration patterns brought migrants from an ever­wider range of source countries, even as those native to the province became more and more mobile. In this context,

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many religions such as spiritualism that were not “new religions” in historical terms appeared as such in the Quebec context of the 1960s and ’70s (also see Labrecque, this volume). All this has made for an increasingly varied religious landscape as immigrants, and sometimes Québécois who have lived abroad, have brought new influences to the province. Some French­speakers, born in Quebec and baptized in the Catholic faith, have converted to Islam, Buddhism,16 and Evangelical religions, while many more have been drawn to more marginal spiritual currents, including var­ ious yogic spiritualities, druidism, Amerindian­inspired shamanism, Wicca, Echankar, spiritualism. One might well ask, why this type of diversity has received so much less attention than that due to immi­ gration? Our team research has found that those who frequent non­ mainstream currents, are unlikely to discuss this openly with others. Moreover, these lesser­known religions (or spiritualities) generally do not require conversion in the sense of a formal change of religious belonging, such that those brought up Catholic sometimes retain cer­ tain elements of Catholic identity and religious observance. Those I have met in the sch generally do not see spiritualism as a religious identity but rather as a kind of “spirituality”; indeed, in terms of “religion,” most still consider themselves Catholic and some con­ tinue regular Catholic practice. As we shall see, Catholic elements are clearly visible in the ritual activities of the sch.

the spiritual church of healing At present, those who attend services at the Church are mostly natives of Montreal and the surrounding area whose first language is French. More immigrants are present at sch activities than there were in the early 2000s; besides a few older Italians, one now finds Haitians, Jamaicans, Latin Americans, as well as several Roumanians and North Africans. I would estimate that immigrants now make up about 20 per cent of those in attendance at Church activities. The congregation has become noticeably younger over the last decade; most attending services are adults between thirty and sixty, along with a few in their twenties, and a handful of retirees. Women out­

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number men considerably at services, though there are as many men as women among the ministers, mediums, and healers who practise in the sch. Unlike most spiritualist groups in Montreal, the sch has legal status as a Church, such that its ministers perform marriages, including gay marriages, and officiate at funerals. Requests for such rituals often come from nonmembers who seek to mark these rites of passage in a religious fashion but without constraints as to their religious belonging or practice. As is the case for the other spiritualist groups in Montreal, the sch’s financial means are limited. The group does not have its own building but rather occupies a rented space on two floors on a slightly seedy strip of a central artery located near a metro station in downtown Montreal. Marked only by a cardboard sign in its narrow doorway, the Church is easy to miss among the many small businesses on the block. Donations and collections at services just cover rent, heating, and, in recent years, air conditioning in the summer. None of the six ministers, who include four women, are salaried nor are the mediums and healers who contribute their efforts at Church services. Inside, the decor is simple, adorned with symbols from the Catholic tradition and others. A Bible (King James version) is on prominent dis­ play, reflecting the fact that spiritualism emerged from the Protestant tradition. The walls are hung with paintings, in a “New Age” style, of angels and other spirit entities, including several that depict Natives (First Nations people), as well as one of Jesus. Decorations adorn the central area on holidays such as Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, and St Patrick’s Day as well as Christmas and Easter. Upstairs, one finds a library of spiritualist writings, a kitchenette, and a small office. On this floor, more traditional Catholic images, such as the Sacred Heart, are displayed. I have described the regular activities of the sch in greater detail elsewhere,17 so I only summarize them here. Services include prayers, hymns (mostly Protestant classics translated into French), and clairvoyant messages given by mediums. Healing services held on Sundays feature the “laying on of hands.” At an event held annu­ ally around New Year’s, Michel (pseudonym) channels numerous guides who offer predictions for the coming year. Along with public

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activities, closed groups (“circles” in classical spiritualist terminol­ ogy), directed by one of the ministers (all of whom are mediums), meet on a weekly or weekly basis. Attendance is limited to members of the group, though invited guests are sometimes admitted to a session. In meetings, members learn to practise one or another form of clairvoyance. For example, they might be asked to “see” what several others in the group need on a spiritual or material level. On some occasions, they are asked to place a personal object on a tray, then lights are dimmed, and each person chooses an object to see what they can sense from holding it. In the groups he leads, Michel gives a number of messages at the end of the session and very occa­ sionally channels one of his guides or several in turn. The sch shares the basic principles of spiritualism, though the vocabulary is variable. These include the existence of God, some­ times termed “Universal Intelligence,” individuals’ responsibility for their actions, the consequences of their actions in the afterlife, the continued existence of the human soul and the eternal progress avail­ able to it, the possibility of communion with spirits, and so on. Of the seven groups in Montreal, two are particularly Catholic and fran­ cophone in flavour, one being the sch; the other has many services devoted to the Virgin Mary and marks Catholic Saints’ feasts on the calendar featured on its website. Other groups are formally bilingual but function mainly in English. My first contact with the sch was with Michel, whom I met through a friend. At our first meeting for a clairvoyant reading in late 1999, I was impressed by his ability to capture the important elements of my past and present, along with his very precise predictions for the future (later confirmed). We spoke English, Michel being fully bilingual. As I was leaving, Michel invited me to visit the church that functioned on the premises. Curious to see what kind of church this could be, over the next few months I attended a number of services at the sch. Though I had never worked on religion, I found myself spontaneously taking notes after each service. After several months, I raised the ques­ tion of doing research on the sch with Michel. He was very open to this and invited me to join a closed group (the first I had heard of such groups). He asked that I be discrete, i.e., that I not disturb the religious

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atmosphere of the gathering and that I participate like other mem­ bers. I readily accepted, since what interested me most was the spiritual experience of the mediums, healers, and others who had attended this church for at least a few years and how this kind of religion fit into their modern, urban lives. Except for three interviews with Michel, the research was based entirely on participant observation for the first year and a half. Situated close to home and mostly unfunded, this study was car­ ried out in “real time,” alongside other research and professional activities, rather than in the compressed temporal framework of most social science research. This allowed me to let fieldwork rela­ tionships and my understanding of spiritualist religious culture evolve before proceeding to formal interviews. Over the two fol­ lowing years, I carried out two interviews each with some twenty key informants, one on their general life history and the other on their spiritual experiences,18 as well as innumerable field observa­ tions, and informal interviews with Michel and others. The field­ work developed as a process of alternation between proximity and distance, with moments of intense, subjectively engaged participa­ tion19 interspersed among the usual more distanced research activ­ ities of note taking, observation, analysis, comparison, and so on. Over the years I have maintained contact with the sch and continue to follow its development. The spiritualist research, along with certain findings from team research on religious diversity in Quebec as it has developed since the 1960s, made me aware of the fact that there was a great deal of socially invisible religion and spirituality in Quebec.20 Many reli­ gious groups, like the sch, lack the resources to own their own build­ ings, meeting in rented spaces or private homes; moreover, speak­ ing of one’s religion is something of a social taboo among old stock Québécois. No matter what the group(s) they frequented, most of those we met in the course of our broader study are discreet with family, friends, and colleagues about their religious (“spiritual”) activities, fearing ridicule or conflict. In the team study, standardized research tools (interview formats, observation grids) that are adapted to each group form the core

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of the methodology for the team study, which included two other Spiritualist congregations. Assistants observe religious rituals and other religious activities such as neighborhood prayer groups as well as social activities involving members and at least one leader on their personal and religious trajectories, the role of the religious group in their everyday lives, the level of economic, and ideological com­ mitment to the community, and, when relevant, religious activities related to other religions. The research methodology gives an import­ ant place to the voice of the actors, their subjectivity and embodied experience, being strongly influenced by approaches termed vari­ ously as “phenomenological,” “experiential,” or “experience­near,”21 and many others. By applying the same tools to a wide variety of religious groups and carefully supervising the assistants, we hope to avoid some of the possible biases of an experience­centred approach. In light of the team study, it becomes clear that many aspects of sch religious sociality and practices are common to many other reli­ gious currents in Quebec. Some are in fact generally true of religion today; for example, the emphasis on healing (described as “enhanced well­being”). In this section I situate the sch in relation to its local and provincial context and, where relevant, to broader trends in con­ temporary religions. Physically, the sch is nearly invisible. I had passed its door many times without noticing the small sign that indicated the presence of the church. The sch holds its main activities on the second floor of a commercial building that hosts a used bookstore on the ground floor. Across the street one finds several ethnic grocery stores and restau­ rants and other small businesses, including a sex shop with life­sized mannequins in the front window. It should also be noted that there are many other small, marginal religious groups in the central city, close to the downtown core, along with a number of long­established Anglican and Catholic churches. Most of the smaller congregations rent the space they occupy, and in some cases, several (not always of the same religious tradition) share a space and use it at different times. There are two other spiritualist groups in easy walking dis­ tance of the sch, and, until a few years ago, there was yet a third that is now established in a location north of the downtown area.

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For small religious groups that do not have the means to own their place of worship, a central location has advantages that can offset the high cost of renting in the downtown core. Their clientel tends to be dispersed throughout the metropolitan area rather than concentrated in any one neighbourhood. Moreover, members of such nonmain­ stream groups often rely on public transportation. Such is certainly the case with the sch, which has been in its present location for many years. We have found several other parts of Montreal that host many different types of religious groups; generally they are close to subway stops in multiethnic areas characterized by mixed land use and where rents are somewhat more affordable than in the downtown area.

invisible religiosity The near­invisibility of the Spiritual Church of Healing in the urban landscape is fairly typical of small religious groups in Quebec. Physical invisibility is compounded by social invisibility; many of those who are most active as mediums and healers in the sch do not discuss their religious activities with family, friends, and colleagues unless they sense that the other person is open about these things. “My family can’t stand this kind of stuff,” is a common reaction. The same turned out to be the case with most of those we met in the course of the team research, especially those involved in non­ mainstream groups.22 Like the spiritualists, they expressed fear of ridicule; some professionals (doctors, lawyers, psychologists, edu­ cators) involved in unconventional spiritualities such as shaman­ ism, ayahuasca, and Ekankar expressed the fear of scandalizing their clients and colleagues. The widespread social taboo related to discussing one’s religious belief and practice is striking in compar­ ison, for example, to what I have seen in the United States. Among French­speaking “cradle Catholics,” invisibility is exacerbated by the tendency to speak of attendance at non­Catholic groups and churches, including Evangelical ones, as “spirituality”; “religion” being reserved for Catholicism, its clergy, and hierarchy. Spiritualist mediums and healers, when asked their religion, tended to say things like, “I was baptized Catholic.” When I asked, “Would you

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call yourself a spiritualist,” most looked mystified. One answered, clearly ill at ease, “That would be like, well, an identity, right?” In short, non­Catholic practice does not typically mean a change of religious identity but rather the enhancement of one’s spiritual life. Clearly the term, “spiritual but not religious” has a different connota­ tion than what Fuller describes among Americans, where it typically means “no religious practice or affiliation.”23 Further complicating the issue of where the religious ends and the secular begins is the fact that alternative health approaches, life coaching, personal devel­ opment courses, forms of yoga and martial arts are often framed in a kind of generic spirituality and characterized by a certain rituality (e.g., the short meditation and chant before and after yoga classes).

religious hybridity Many of the spiritualists I have met keep active ties with the Catholic Church, sending their children to catechism and attending Mass at least occasionally, particularly on major holidays. For this reason, the sch has no service on Christmas or New Year’s. Members often refer to the Sunday service as “la messe” (Mass). Moreover, as I have explained in detail elsewhere, sch activities are strongly tinged by Catholic references.24 St Brother André, St Joseph’s Oratory (a local site of pilgrimage that was built through Brother André’s efforts, described by Anderson in this volume), the Virgin Mary, Saint Joseph, and the Holy Spirit are often mentioned at spiritualist services. For example, a message given by one of the mediums to someone in the congregation that I have heard on numerous occasions is, “I see the blue of the Virgin Mary around you, keep praying to her.” As with the St Jovite Catholics described by Kaell (this volume), Mary figures prominently among the invisible beings who people the lifeworld of sch congregants. Moreover, rosaries (usually inherited from a mother or grandmother) are often among the objects brought to the front of the church to be prayed over at healing services. Adhering to several religious currents concurrently (most often Indigenous spiritualities and Catholic churches), along with the hybrid practices this entails, is quite common among those I met at the sch.

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As noted, many pray to Catholic saints, cherish Catholic religious objects (often inherited from a parent), and still consider themselves Catholic. It should be added that many, probably most, also believe in reincarnation, which is true of many Catholics in Quebec.25 Minister­ mediums often present neoshamanic (Indigenous spirituality) or Catholic activities in a positive light. For example, I have heard Michel and other mediums say they “see” that the person they are addressing is very attached to the Oratory and encourage them to go there to pray. Likewise, mediums often mention favourably the sweat lodges orga­ nized by several members of the sch under the tutelage of a Lakota­ descended mentor from the United States. I should add that such permissiveness about religious circulation and hybridity is also the case with other currents we observed in the team study. For example, in a Sai Baba group, composed of disciples of the deceased Indian guru of the same name, those who have other religious affiliations are encouraged to keep them; similarly, a Buddhist leader in Montreal was warmly encouraging when two of her disciples, a married couple, decided to stop coming to her centre and return to Catholic practice. Yet another disciple of the same teacher remained a practising Catholic while also developing a Buddhist spiritual practice.

the centrality of healing Healing is of central importance to religious practice and discourse at the sch. Apart from the weekly service where healers (usually six or more) give healing by the laying on of hands, some of the ministers also give healing to individuals in private, as members occasionally do for each other or for persons close to them. Typically, those who come to the sch healing services are seeking relief from distress that might be given little attention, if not simply medicalized, in biomedi­ cal contexts (anxiety, sadness, depression, and so on). Implicitly, these needs are validated in the religious healing context. Spiritualists, like those who have experienced healing in other religious contexts, typ­ ically speak of healing in terms of enhanced well­being. As Csordas puts it, “The object of healing is not elimination of a thing (an illness, a problem, a symptom, a disorder) but transformation of a person,

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a self that is a bodily being.”26 Some who seek healing at the sch are dealing with chronic conditions (e.g., lupus, arthritis, recurrent depression) and have already passed through a lengthy therapeutic itinerary, having tried various therapeutic approaches, be they bio­ medical, alternative, or spiritual. Religious belief is by no means a prerequisite for receiving healing at the sch. However, recipients must be willing to accept healing and observe the rules of decorum required (silence, eyes closed, hands resting with the palms down). They often shed the silent tears of emotional release and say that the healing received has given solace for feelings of stress, anxiety, or sadness, and in some cases, for chronic pain. As for the healers, all agree that they receive healing while transmitting it and that they often experience a oneness – with self, spirit guides, God;27 they feel responsible, as several put it, for becoming as clear a conduit as possible. This means avoiding nega­ tive influences such as drugs and excessive drinking, and maintaining spiritual awareness through practices such as prayer and meditation. Beyond ritual acts, healing is also a central theme in the discourse of participants in sch activities; they sometimes find a message received from one of the mediums to be “healing”; above all, heal­ ing is the central theme of personal transformation through spir­ itual practice over the years, as most describe it. Often healing is described in terms of reconciliation with an estranged family mem­ ber, as forgiveness (pardon) – from a former spouse, even from a deceased family member, as it was for Martin, a spiritualist minister now in his fifties. Healing experiences can be highly emotional and are often experienced in a very physical way. Martin comes from a past of alcoholism and drug addiction; his father committed suicide when Martin was about thirty years old, after many years in aa. He recounts an experience he had while on an aa retreat at a Catholic monastery that eventually brought him to the sch: It was my first real spiritual experience and I couldn’t believe it ... It was at the monastery, we were all men. I started to work on the child within, started to write, the first pains started com­ ing out. [I remember] standing up, crying, saying, “Dad, I only

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wanted you to rock me” ... That was all that came out. Then I heard his voice saying, “Today I am rocking you.” I felt my guts being rocked ... He came inside and healed something he couldn’t have when he was alive. I was scared ... The mind is powerful thing, but not that powerful, not like this ... I didn’t even believe in that stuff, I figured, once you die that’s it ... Healing as ritual practice, discourse, and a spiritual motif is cen­ tral to other important currents in Quebec, such as evangelical Protestantism and charismatic Catholicism. It is also prominent in the rituals of nature spiritualities (shamanism, Wicca, paganism, dru­ idry), where sometimes the object of healing is the earth itself and in the discourse of those who participate in retreats and pilgrimages.28 The near omnipresence of healing in contemporary spiritualities is hardly limited to Quebec, as is evident in the works of McGuire29 and Csordas30 regarding the US. Other writers make the same observa­ tion regarding spiritism (Aubrée et Laplantine31) and Pentecostalism (Corten32) in Latin America. Healing is generally experienced as a holistic transformation that is lived in the body and the emotions as well as the spirit. While deeply individual, healing is also eminently social; individuals generally do not find healing in complete solitude but rather in connection with others, normally a religious collectivity of some kind. The following section examines the sch as representative of the new religious soci­ alities that seem to be emerging in this era of individualized religion.

individualized religion, authenticity and new religious socialities The intensely “real” quality of Martin’s healing experience is similar to what others describe in regard to healing and sometimes to other kinds of extraordinary happenings (visions, voices, and other kinds of unusual sensory impressions). Generally, such experiences are lived through the body (“I felt my guts being rocked”) and so assume a personally irrefutable quality, an intensity and hyperreality that endows them with spiritual authenticity. For many individuals, their

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first awareness of embodiment in connection with the sacred comes through a healing ritual. This is true for many who frequent the sch, as well as for those involved in other religious traditions. Often recip­ ients of healing, at the sch and elsewhere, describe themselves as having been initially “sceptical.” Again, as Martin’s case illustrates, the physically sensed and felt “realness” of the healing, takes them by surprise. At the sch, as in many of the evangelical and charismatic Catholic congregations our team has observed, healing often serves as a point of entry for new members. Membership in the sch is often not formalized and when such hap­ pens, is not a matter of religious identity. Rather it means paying an annual fee ($20 at this writing) as a contribution to the church that gives a reduced fee for certain activities and access to the sch library. Newcomers are informed of the closed groups (“spiritual development courses”) and invited to contact a minister to join one of them if they so wish. From what I have observed only a few of those in the closed groups go to services regularly, and vice versa; only a few of the regu­ lars at sch services attend a closed group. To join a closed group, one has to be a member, but other activities are open to nonmembers. Typically new people hear about the sch from a friend or relative. Though new friendships are sometimes formed at the church, there are virtually no nonreligious activities held by the church. Typically there are no activities designed to socialize children into the group nor is childcare provided during services. This is also the case of the other nonproselytizing spiritualities (Buddhism, shamanism, pagan­ ism, Wicca, druidry, and so on) that attract old stock francophones in Quebec, with the exception of some Buddhist groups. In virtually all the aforementioned cases, religious collectivities more often take the form of loose networks than of fixed, bounded groups. Though there is often a fairly stable nucleus, participants come and go and circulate among several spiritual traditions, often keeping in touch via Facebook, websites, and so on. Participants do not necessarily see each other outside of religious contexts. Yet, for ephemeral but meaningful moments, participants are linked in com­ munion through their common connection to a transcendent reality, through shared prayer, and ritual. In short, these groupings do not

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provide institutional communal elaboration but rather offer occa­ sions of communitas. Participants in sch closed groups, for example, rarely meet outside the church except for the occasional friendship dyad. Yet they feel that the two hours they spend together sustains them throughout the two weeks before the next meeting. Most spiritualist congregations struggle financially and depend on voluntary contributions. However, growth does not seem to be an objective for any of these groups. Many people frequent the sch for a few years then disappear from sight. Some stop group religious activ­ ities altogether for a while, a few leave the area, others frequent other spiritualist groups, and still others give priority to another type of spirituality. If and when they reappear, they are greeted warmly with no questions asked. The sch is, however, somewhat atypical in its limited use of new communication technologies, as compared with other groups our team has studied in Montreal. We have noticed that it does not use social media as much as druids, Wiccans, pagans, and shamanic groups for whom Facebook is a major tool for organizing ritual events and in one case we learned of, synchronized prayers at a distance.33 The sch is somewhat more institutionalized than these other groups and does not generally hold unscheduled activities. At the same time, its online presence is markedly less visible than that of many Catholic and Evangelical groups; the websites of Evangelical and Pentecostal churches often provide digital resources (e.g. vid­ eos of sermons), as Mossière shows in her chapter in this volume. A Catholic church in our study posts videos of Sunday Mass every week, and another organizes online retreats. While sch sociality might seem somewhat flimsy compared, say, to traditional Catholic parishes and Evangelical churches, especially ones with mainly immigrant congregations like those discussed by Mossière. However, sch sociality, in fact, serves many important func­ tions, including (1) enhanced religious practice, such as singing, pray­ ing, and meditating together (many of those I have interviewed find it difficult to meditate alone and much prefer to do so in a group). (2) Religious apprenticeship (e.g., developing clairvoyant capacities in the closed group) in the form of tutelage from a mentor such as Michel, which is considered essential for developing one’s “spiritual

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gifts” as it is seen as dangerous to do so on one’s own and likely to have serious mental or physical consequences. Individual “esoterism,” as contact with invisible entities for frivolous or egotistical reasons is often termed, is also likely to attract negative entities. (3) The group provides support for those in altered states of consciousness such as the trancelike states experienced by some in meditation or during heal­ ing. Healers are given space in which to work without bumping into each other because this can be very disturbing for a person in a state of trance. On rare occasions, an individual may fall into a deep trance and begin channelling or speaking in tongues and will need the help of an experienced medium to come back to a normal state without feeling disturbed afterward. (4) Ritualized healing practices in the sch pro­ vide implicit social support for the recipient; people often seek healing for psychosocial concerns such as depression, sadness, or anxiety that they feel unable to voice with medical caregivers. (5) The activities of the sch give validation for beliefs and practices experienced personally by participants (e.g. healing, spirit presence) that are otherwise socially marginalized. Feeling the presence of spiritual guides or, alternatively, the threatening proximity of negative entities are very common among those who are attracted to the sch, and in the church they find con­ firmation and validation for experiences that might be ridiculed by others. In a sense, the very minimalist character of Spiritualist religious sociality brings out its spiritual importance for participants.

a question of commitment Given that religious authenticity is so highly individualized, even if validated socially, we might well raise the question, what of religious commitment? All the more, given the fact that the collectivity provid­ ing social validation is itself fluid and changing. The question of reli­ gious commitment as regards individualized religion goes back as far as Robert Bellah and his colleagues’34 who caution against the dan­ gers of “religious individualism,” most notably in the case of “Sheila,” a woman of deep personal faith but no institutional affiliation, who described her faith as “Sheilaism.”35 From the authors’ point of view, religious individualists need to reconnect with religious institutions to

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assure their sustained moral integrity and to transmit that to their chil­ dren. Similarly, Taylor36 sees the danger of personal spirituality sliding into “feel­good and superficial”37 and believes that that we will likely see a “much lower rate of intergenerational continuity of religious alle­ giance”38 but also questions how spiritual discipline can be sustained in the long term by those “who are not satisfied by a momentary sense of “Wow!”39 McGuire, who criticizes Bellah et al. for their neglect of the embod­ ied dimension of Sheila’s religious experience that is evident even in their brief description, finds “considerable variation” in the lived reli­ gion of those she studied as regards depth of experience, effort, and discipline in commitment and engagement with others.40 The same might be said of those I have interviewed at the sch. Martin and numerous others admit that they do not always “feel like” attend­ ing church activities but do so anyway. All of those I interviewed developed personal practices (prayer, spiritual reading, meditation) with no direction from Michel or anyone else. The regularity of these practices vary over time and from one individual to another; more­ over, practice changes over time. As we have seen, their participation in religious groups is likely to change as well. Yet their spiritual lives are far from superficial or narcissistic. Some few who frequent the sch occasionally may exemplify the self­absorbed “consumerism” illustrated rather spectacularly in the case of “Doreen”41as described by McGuire. Those who consistently participate over extended periods, the case of all those I formally interviewed, carry the burden and responsibility as well as the privi­ leges of religious agency. Free to choose what they practice, how and when and with whom, they nonetheless feel fully responsible for the state of their own inner life. In the exchanges of the closed group, it is clear that all participants consider their own thoughts as having great impact on themselves and others, and as requiring discipline. For example, at a recent meeting, when participants were asked to meditate about what they would do when they found themselves in a difficult situation, virtually everyone mentioned (among other things) controlling their thoughts: mainly avoiding negative thinking about self or others and praying for healing of others. Their commitment

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is not to a particular religious group or institution (though many identify as Catholic) but rather to a sense of self that their awakened spirituality has permitted them to glimpse. Indeed, it is this sense of responsibility for their spiritual quality of life that may lead them to eventually change churches or give priority to another religious current. Religious authenticity over the long term is often phrased in terms of healing: that is, transformation of self and relationships over time, sometimes marked by peak moments such as Martin describes. Such a trajectory does not bind individuals to a particular group, church, or religious tradition but rather to a notion of self to which they seek to be true.

conclusion The Spiritual Healing Church exemplifies certain new dimensions of religiosity in Quebec as well as more widespread trends, such as the importance of healing and the tendency toward individualized religion. At the same time, the sch illustrates certain particularities of religion in Quebec, such as the widespread tendency of “born Catholics” to accumulate other religious practices and affiliations while retaining elements of Catholicism rather than simply leaving that faith for another. Thus, the world of spirit that is constantly evoked in the messages that sch mediums address to members of the congregation is quite different from that described by scholars of contemporary spiritualism in Iceland,42 Great Britain,43 or the United States.44 Another tendency we have noted in Quebec is that the definition of the polarity between spirituality and religion is dif­ ferent from what has been observed in the United States. In Quebec, the term “spirituality” is invoked to refer to practices of traditions (e.g. yogic, spiritualist, shamanic) other than Catholicism, “religion” being associated with the latter’s clerical authority and hierarchy. Finally, I have looked at how individualization, religious sociality, and authenticity are associated for those who frequent the sch and how this bears on religious commitment. Religious agency is closely tied to individualization; however, the responsibilities agency entails are rarely discussed. This dimension of religious individualization

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sheds a somewhat different light on religious circulation and hybrid­ ities that characterize much of contemporary religion and that are often taken as synonymous with lack of depth, discipline, and com­ mitment. Some contemporary currents (e.g. yogic ones) give more emphasis to bodily discipline and ascesis than does spiritualism; on the other hand, we have seen that sch participants give considerable importance to disciplining their thoughts. My observations of the sch over the past fifteen years indicate that religious commitment can be present without permanent adher­ ence to one current or another, though, from what I have seen, it seems to involve a certain stability and continuity of practice and frequentation(s). That is, substantial changes to these (a change of church, a decision to prioritize another religious current) generally come only after considerable reflection. Bellah et al. contrast “reli­ gious individualism” with the “biblical impetus so see religion as involved with the whole of life.”45 In fact, we have met many indi­ viduals in seemingly permissive currents such as Wicca, shamanism, spiritualism, and often some mixture of these along with a dose of Catholicism whose personal synthesis of apparently disparate ele­ ments inspires the whole of their lives. The way they eat and drink, the way they respond to problems, how they treat others, animals, and natural resources, the relations and routines of daily life – all are infused with the sacred.

9 Transhumanism, (Secular) Religion, and the Biotech Age: Liberation from the Lamentable Cory Andrew Labrecque Quebec was once considered the bastion of Roman Catholicism in North America. There was a time when the Catholic faith was tightly bound to the cultural identity of Québécois, which – in some ways – set them apart from the rest of the predominantly Protestant, English­speaking continent. Gradually, though, as the province inched its way into the 1960s, the unweaving of Catholicism from the fabric of Quebec culture was already well underway: the pews began to empty, churches were being sold (or converted into lofts), religious illiteracy was on the rise, and the pillars of Quebec society – including healthcare and education – were swept out of the hands of sancta mater ecclesia. Designed to be the mark of an aggiornamento of its own kind in Quebec, this distancing from the Church brought about “a sense of existential rootlessness” and a certain vacancy that would go on to attract a host of potential stand­ins, including consumerism and nation­ alism.1 To be sure, the Quiet Revolution “didn’t eliminate religion in the province,” Canadian freelance journalist Simon Lewsen insists, but “gave people the freedom to practise informally, experimentally, and on their own terms.”2 Québécois were suddenly “on the market for spiritual values in search of the sect, association, or spiritual path that [would] best suit their needs” and that were not necessarily irrecon­ cilable (in their view) with their deep­seated Catholic heritage.3 This paved the way for a more varied religious demographic in Quebec, one that would make room for the proliferation of new religious move­ ments, which some say now number in the hundreds.4

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enter transhumanism Religion scholar Roland Chagnon makes plain that new religious movements in Quebec are particular: The adjective “new,” used to describe the religions established in Québec since the late 1960s and the early 1970s, therefore has a meaning that is, above all, cultural and contextual. It is in relation to the religious history of Québec that these religions are new. They represent a major rupture in the homogeneity of the history of Francophones in Québec, which up to now had been almost exclusively Christian and Catholic.5 Pair this phenomenon with the steady growth of biotechnology in the province and the stage is set for the import of a distinctly Québécois form of transhumanism: a philosophic movement that believes it is high time for humans to wrench control over their own evolution from the bungling hands of nature and see us into a new mode of being that is finally liberated – thanks to science and technology – from the lam­ entable limitations that we have so passively accepted (transhumanists will say) as inherently human. Transhumanism “affirms the possibil­ ity and desirability of fundamentally improving the human condition through applied reason, especially by developing and making widely available technologies to eliminate aging and to greatly enhance human intellectual, physical, and psychological capacities.”6 Although the cultural and philosophical antecedents of transhu­ manism are many, the World Transhumanist Association was estab­ lished in 1998 by philosophers Nick Bostrom and David Pearce “to provide a general organizational basis for all transhumanist groups and interests, across the political spectrum” and “to develop a more mature and academically respectable form of transhumanism, freed from the ‘cultishness’ which, at least in the eyes of some critics, had afflicted some of its earlier convocations.”7 In 2008, the association renamed itself “Humanity+,” which boasts thousands of followers from more than one hundred countries and a few local chapters scat­ tered across the globe.8

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One such chapter – the Montreal Transhumanist Association – was founded in 2003 by Vladimir (Justice) De Thézier, who was con­ vinced that the province was poised to host a movement of this kind. Despite some libertarian currents in the United States, the trans­ humanist movement which is slowly organizing itself in Quebec reflects in a dynamic fashion many values of Quebecer society, such as pragmaticism and solidarity. Quebecer transhumanism favors a middle ground between technorealism and techno­utopi­ anism to conceive of a new vision of society.9 De Thézier drew important parallels between his advocacy for Quebec independence and his promotion of what James Hughes calls “democratic transhumanism.”10 This particular brand of the movement/philosophy maintains that “human beings will generally be happier when they take rational control of the natural and social forces that control their lives,” embraces “the democratic tradition with its values of liberty, equality, solidarity and collective self­gover­ nance,” and professes a “belief in reason and scientific progress, that human beings can use reason and technology to improve the condi­ tions of life.”11 De Thézier appealed to those who felt as though they were being – politically, technologically, biologically, intellectually – restrained; the Quebec nationalist and the democratic transhumanist, he assured, have much in common. Both are seekers of liberation from intolerably constraining forces. As a result of an increasing number of members joining from across the province, De Thézier announced that on 25 November 2004 the Montreal Transhumanist Association would be renamed the “Quebec Transhumanist Association” to better reflect the broad­ ening appeal for the movement that had extended beyond the city.12 A report posted by De Thézier in 2005 noted that the association by then included sixty­five members – university students, artists, activ­ ists, and others – who met on a monthly basis to discuss the poten­ tial benefits and drawbacks of emergent technologies, particularly in relation to Quebec society.13 The primary question on the table was whether or not to initiate a grassroots movement to advocate

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for morphological freedom and the right of persons to transform the body if (and in whatever way) one would want to.14 However, the movement/philosophy – both in Quebec and world­ wide – was quickly assuming a “quasi­religious” or “pseudo­reli­ gious” temperament that the secular humanist did not want to enter­ tain. Transhumanism, De Thézier grieved, had become an extreme form of technophilia and technoutopianism where the vast majority of adherents have not only adopted a reli­ gious­like faith in technological progress but have expectations that are troublingly similar to those of traditional religionists such as omniscience and immortality. People are free to believe what they want but such quixotic beliefs should have no place in rational discourse among intellectuals and activists trying to understand how emerging technologies force us to re­imagine democracy.15 De Thézier lamented that he himself had been an indiscriminating proponent of transhumanism, who was “spending far more time try­ ing to spread the transhumanist memeplex” and not enough effort on addressing fundamental flaws, such as, “an undercritical support for technology in general and fringe science in particular; a distortive ‘us vs. them’ tribe­like mentality and identity; and a vulnerability to unrealistic utopian and dystopian ‘future hype.’” On 1 January 2008, he officially left the movement and the Quebec Transhumanist Association has, as far as I can tell, become defunct. The draw of Québécois to transhumanism, though, has not. On 6 April 2015, a new technophilic meet­up group – called Noös Montreal – was launched, claiming a few hundred members and engaging parallel topics of conversation, including the exploration of human enhance­ ment, life extension, trans/posthumanhood, and “disruptive technol­ ogies.”16 In February 2016, Noös hosted an event inviting all inter­ ested persons to “join the transhumanist community of Montreal.”17 Motivated by De Thézier’s concern for the approximation of trans­ humanism to religion, I go on here to explore how transhumanism shares a number of the same functions that we ordinarily attribute to

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religion. Specifically, I discuss the phenomenon of “secular” (sometimes called “surrogate”) religion by putting transhumanism in conversation with Roman Catholicism (the dynamic most evident in Quebec) as a case in point. Interestingly, even though it is often described as being antipathetic to religion, there is good reason to make the claim that transhumanism inadvertently promotes the place and significance of religion in an increasingly secularized world. Indeed, theologian Harvey Cox has made the claim that “secularization,” construed as a controlling metaphor that precludes religion from the public sphere and from culturally formative institutions, is dead.18 Perhaps such a trend is expected from societies in which an endemic fear of ageing and death translates into the scientific pursuit of immortalizing the self through, say, stem cells, cryonics, and recombinant DNA technology. Transhumanists, many of whom are preoccupied with bodily infinity and, thus, are active champions of such technologies, help bring all of this to light. In addition, the classification of transhumanism is important here for a variety of reasons, including its acceptability as a credible and insightful partner – with religion, medicine, and other disciplines – in the debate on how to define the moral contours of a technoculture that is on the rise. All the more, it begins to suggest what la religion vécue might look like in a specifically biotech age. Ultimately, the distancing of Québécois from the “religious institution” – which is not, we are finding, entirely symptomatic of a lack of interest in the spiritual life – has allowed for what Deirdre Meintel calls “new forms of religious belonging.” Interestingly, some of these new forms are binding the ostensibly disparate worlds of science and religion, making the con­ vincing appeal that both can be amicably integrated in human identity.

enter religion Saint Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, completed in 731 ce, earned him the title of “Father of English Church History.”19 In the text, one of King Edwin of Northumbria’s chief men speaks to the counselors there summoned to decide whether the nation should embrace the Christian religion:

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Your Majesty, when we compare the present life of man on earth with that time of which we have no knowledge, it seems to me like the swift flight of a single sparrow through the banquet­ ing­hall where you are sitting at dinner on a winter’s day with your thanes and counsellors. In the midst there is a comforting fire to warm the hall; outside, the storms of winter rain or snow are raging. This sparrow flies swiftly in through one door of the hall, and out through another. While he is inside, he is safe from the winter storms; but after a few moments of comfort, he van­ ishes from sight into the wintry world from which he came. Even so, man appears on earth for a little while; but of what went before this life or what follows, we know nothing. Therefore, if this new teaching has brought any more certain knowledge, it seems only right that we should follow it.20 Theologian Douglas John Hall, in his “Confessing Christ in a Post­ Christendom Context,” argues that this passage represents “the anthro­ pological presupposition of all authentic soteriology.”21 Indeed, there is something appealing about the transcendent – that which lies outside of the familiar, the ordinary, the warmly lit banquet hall, so to speak – as it is described here. Perhaps Karl Marx was referring to just this when he called religion “the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world […] the opium of the people.”22 To be sure, many have argued that the most important social function of religion is the preser­ vation of self and society as well as the tempering of our dissatisfaction with the injustice of human finitude and the fear of oblivion. Religious scholar S. Cromwell Crawford is convinced that “though fears of old age and death are normal, these ancient fears are intensi­ fied because we live in a materialistic society that has deprived itself of religion.”23 Others have linked this exaggerated fear to a disinter­ est in posterity and the dominant narcissism that consumes contem­ porary society.24 In a secular worldview bereft of religion, then, there is nothing outside of the king’s dining room, which is why transhu­ manists are preoccupied with making certain that the banquet is both sumptuous and long­lived. Nevertheless, Nick Bostrom hopes in the “serious possibility of there being something very precious outside

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the human sphere.”25 Note here the mélange of religious and secu­ lar elements even though Bostrom, as we shall see, has adamantly rejected attempts to identify transhumanism as a religion. Perhaps this is for some of the same reasons that a number of Montreal Spiritualists side with “spirituality” as a designation over and above “religion,” as Meintel notes in her chapter. Although many agree that transhumanism functions as “religion” in a number of ways, the more contentious issue is whether or not the movement/philosophy actually is a religion.

transcending the s tat u s q u o , transcending the human condition According to sociologist Susan Palmer, “Quebec is a really good place if you are a new prophet and you want to set up your religious organization. […] There is a kind of void that new religions rush into opportunistically.”26 And it is not just being filled with new religions that explicitly identify themselves as such but with groups, move­ ments, and ideologies that sometimes look and act like religion even though they are adamant (some more than others) about not being associated with – or, worse, classified as – religion. In The Catholic Faith and the Social Construction of Religion, Allan Savage and Peter Stuart highlight a number of these so­called “secular religions” that have a distinctly Québécois feel: hydroelectric power, sovereignty­as­ sociation, materialism, and language.27 The particular religio­cul­ tural context of Quebec, Palmer suggests, has made it hospitable to “quasi­Catholic groups that you wouldn’t necessarily have in [British Columbia] or Alberta.”28 Borrowing from sociologist Rodney Stark’s propositions for the successful implantation of new religious move­ ments, it is here where the religious ecology is fertile and groups that have specific ties to Judaism, Christianity, and/or secular humanism will find some sort of welcome, especially if they are willing to seri­ ously incorporate broad interests in science and technology. Transhumanism is certainly not the first religion­science­technol­ ogy hybrid to find a home in this province. Having visited Japan, Africa, and Australia, Claude Vorilhon (called Rael by his disciples)

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chose Quebec to be the headquarters of Raelianism.29 “The early dynamic leaders” of the movement, Palmer notes, were rooted in Quebec, and “it is in Quebec that campaigns are launched and cre­ ative ideas are tried out.”30 Enthusiasm over Quebec as the right envi­ ronment for the movement to take root is best captured by the words of Madame Morel (identified as the first president of the Council of the Wise, the Raelian administrative body), who finds that the peo­ ple here are “free and happy,” lauding the legality of abortion, the open practice of prostitution, and the falling birthrates.31 In fact, the Raelian message was rather successfully spread through a strategic adoption of the slogan used by Quebec’s pro­choice movement: “Le plaisir oui, la procreation, non!” (pleasure yes, procreation no).32 The Raelian belief that humankind is the innovative engineering product of advanced scientists from another planet is oft situated in the sacred texts familiar to Jews and Christians; these advanced scientists, in whose image we are said to be made, are understood to be the true Elohim, a title – the Raelians claim – that has been mistakenly appropriated for God. Employing recognizable Church language while at the same time disdaining ecclesial positions that were becoming more and more contentious in Quebec society, the Raelian movement appealed to thousands. As Palmer suggests, “a large part of the Raelian success story is related to its cultural con­ tinuity with both the Christian and the conflicting scientific worl­ dviews, which the Raelian message attempts to reconcile.”33 The distancing of Québécois from the institutional Church, but their refusal, at least in some part, to abandon a cultural heritage that is largely formed by the Catholic tradition is a reality that any new religious movement would want to be attentive to. Drawing on the work of Stark, Palmer underlines that “the condition of primary competitors – the conventional faiths – is an important variable. Countries where the forces of secularization and industrial develop­ ment have rapidly and recently eroded traditional religious, moral, and family values offer hospitable soil for ‘implanting’ the message ... the rapid growth of the rm in Quebec in the wake of the decline of the province’s ultramontane Catholic hegemony is an example of this pattern.”34

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The planting of Raelianism and transhumanism here speak to Savage and Stuart’s contention that, in Quebec, “the ‘old religious guard’ has lost the power to reform itself and that the ‘new religious guard’ is not interested in reform of the status quo, but is interested in replacement of the status quo.”35 This was made plain in Rael’s declaration, at an anticlerical parade, that “everything he [the pope] is against, we are for ... contraception, homosexuality, divorce. All the values we espouse, he opposes.”36 It is further emphasized in the transhumanist desire to radically move beyond the human condition altogether. Yet at the same time, the proximity to the “old religious guard” and a sense of retained continuity with the conventional faiths – namely, Roman Catholicism, in this context – are key, Stark is con­ vinced, for the flourishing of new religious movements. Raelianism and transhumanism are two good examples of this struggle, espe­ cially regarding religion in Quebec, to radically transform the famil­ iar while maintaining ties to it: I turn our focus here to the latter.

Transhumanism and Roman Catholicism Although I am reticent to count transhumanism as one of the qua­ si­Catholic groups that Palmer describes, parallels can be drawn that show at least some common ground between the two. The desire for transcendence is shared by transhumanism and Roman Catholicism alike. Both speak of immortality (and the need for a “more perfect substrate,”37 or enhanced bodily form, to accommodate the immortal self) as a seminal feature of this transcendence. For Catholics, eternal life constitutes perfect happiness in communion with God. For trans­ humanists, it is a prerequisite for the exploration of the posthuman realm. For the former, death becomes the lot of the living through sin. For the latter, it is a bane of human existence. In spite of this, Bostrom admits, [t]hat people should make excuses for death is understandable. Until recently there was absolutely nothing anybody could do about it, and it made some degree of sense then to create com­ forting philosophies according to which dying of old age is a fine

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thing (“deathism”). If such beliefs were once relatively harmless, and perhaps even provided some therapeutic benefit, they have now outlived their purpose. Today, we can foresee the possibility of eventually abolishing aging and we have the option of taking active measures to stay alive until then, through life extension techniques and, as a last resort, cryonics. This makes the illusions of deathist philosophies dangerous, indeed fatal, since they teach helplessness and encourage passivity.38 Philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach is convinced that “[i]f man did not die, if he lived forever, if there were no such thing as death, there would be no religion.”39 In fact, his convictions are clear: “God is prerequisite to immortality; without God, there can be no immor­ tality. [...] Without God the belief in immortality has no support, no beginning, no foundation, in short, no principle. Immortality is a suprasensory, fantastic wish and thought [...].”40 Transhumanism, then, presents an interesting challenge to Feuerbach’s repudiation of religion because even though its worldview is not theocentric, its agenda is largely motivated by the prospect of immortality. According to Feuerbach, God appears to be first and immortality second insofar as God is the “instrument” of immortality.41 Transhumanists have no need for the first, because they believe that human innovation will eventually provide alternative means to secure (virtual) immortality in the here­and­now.42 “Anyone who wishes to surmount death, the consequence of nat­ ural necessity,” Feuerbach writes, “must also surpass its cause, nature itself. And anyone who does not wish to end in nature cannot begin with nature, but only with God.”43 Although this need to disconnect from nature in order to overcome it may be true for transhumanism, the biological and biographical continuity of the human person in the “new heavens and the new earth” makes it impossible for the Roman Catholic tradition to divorce itself completely from the world that is known. This contradicts those critics who contend that the otherworldly orientation of Christianity disqualifies it from investing in environmental preservation. “Far from diminishing our concern to develop this earth,” the Catechism teaches, “the expectancy of a

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new earth should spur us on, for it is here that the body of a new human family grows, foreshadowing in some way the age which is to come.”44 Humankind begins and ends in nature (“you are dust, and to dust you shall return”45); humankind begins and ends in God. Feuerbach contests Christianity’s bold promise to fulfill the “imag­ inary” and “unattainable” desires of the human heart. Immortality and the desire for “omniscience” and “absolute perfection” can only ever be illusions, he says: By promising man eternal life, it deprived him of temporal life, by teaching him to trust in God’s help it took away his trust in his own powers; by giving him faith in a better life in heaven, it destroyed his faith in a better life on earth and his striving to attain such a life.46 On the contrary, Feuerbach is “perfectly reconciled” to the thought of his finitude and mortality, arguing that there even comes “a time [...] when man desires death,” especially when he has “lived out his life.”47 In this way, his reasoning shows greater compatibility with the Roman Catholic tradition than it does with transhumanism in maintaining that “limitations [...] are necessary determinations of the human essence, which cannot be dissociated from it [...].”48 Nevertheless, his contempt for religion is made plain: Religious institutions, customs and articles of faith continue to be held sacred even when they stand in the most glaring contra­ diction to man’s more advanced reason and ennobled feelings; even when the original justification and meaning of these same institutions and conceptions are long forgotten. We ourselves are living amid this same repugnant contradiction between religion and culture; our religious doctrines and usages also stand in the most glaring contradiction to our present cultural and material situation; our task today is to do away with this loathsome and disastrous contradiction. Its elimination is the indispensable con­ dition for the rebirth of mankind, the one and only condition for the appearance of a new mankind, as it were, and for the coming

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of a new era [which] requires – if we wish to retain the word – a new religion!49 It should not be lost on readers that Feuerbach’s proposition closely parallels Julian Huxley’s call for a radical reorganization of belief: a humanist evolution­centred religion, like Raelianism or transhuman­ ism, that still needs divinity,50 although without God. Its emphasis on the transnatural (as opposed to supernatural) elicits a certain connec­ tion to nature. Feuerbach maintains that dependence on nature is the “funda­ mental truth” in all religion.51 “[M]an’s dependence on nature,” he insists, “is therefore the ground and beginning of religion, while free­ dom from his dependence, in both a rational and irrational sense, is the ultimate aim of religion.”52 At the same time, he suggests that the Christian tradition denies this dependency.53 This, however, is unreasonable, especially for a religion that tells of a Creator who fashions humanity from the earth in order to till it.54 Interestingly, both Feuerbach and Montreal­based ethicist Margaret Somerville share a presumption in favour of the natural, which is why the for­ mer goes on to criticize theism and the latter, technoscience. They both object to how these perspectives seem to negate nature, the world, and humankind: “in the face of God, the world and man are nothing.”55 However, Christian anthropology does not merit this charge;56 transhumanism, which deems “the natural” to be irrelevant (prob­ lematic even) and chases after posthumanhood, better fits the bill. Instead, it would seem that Feuerbach’s argument should be taken up against certain secular manifestations of religion which, contin­ gent on technology (a form of dependence I would think),57 bewail the constraints of nature and so seek emancipation from it. For transhumanism to be considered a “new religion,” by Feuerbachian standards, one would have to make a case for the equivalence of dependence on technology (and on the intelligent beings responsible for creating technology) and dependence on nature. The question, though, is much more complex than this.

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the semantics of secular religion When we speak of religious freedom, religion as the identity of per­ sons, the province and place of religion in the academy (and its fund­ ing), and even how the courts award benefits and exemption to those groups that fit the bill, we become alert to the ubiquity (or obscurity) of religion and the need to classify it, if not simply for the sake of pragmatics. We cannot afford to throw up our hands in the growing complexity and intricacy of “religion” by postulating, as does the philosopher G.E. Moore, that in the end we are dealing with the indefinable or by following the logician Willard Van Orman Quine, who argued that to define something is to learn how to avoid it.58 Even to adopt the passive colloquial expression “I know it when I see it” leaves scholars and religious people alike ill equipped to define what it is that they study, practise, identify as a source of the self, and/ or to which they give their lives. Are the features ordinarily associated with or characteristic of reli­ gion common only to those primal or world traditions that have been granted the status of religion and not, say, to other ostensibly secu­ lar philosophies or movements such as human rights, Communism, Marxism, humanism, existentialism, or atheism? Theologian Harvey Cox argues that “[t]his is really not secularization. Whatever it is, it’s not your normal nineteenth century expression of religion, either. It’s very fascinating but it’s hard to see what it is.”59 A number of scholars are detecting new worldviews that blend reli­ gious and secular features such as we are seeing in Quebec. Indeed, some thirty years after The Secular City,60 Cox began writing about this overlap. Having pronounced the death of secularization as the controlling metaphor of our day, his attention turned to the transformation of religion (that could neither be identified as secularization nor as the “traditional” expression of religion).61 In Quebec, it could very well be said that la religion vécue is, in fact, la religion transformée of the kind that Cox speaks of here. This change has not gone unnoticed. Religious scholar Edward Bailey, responding to the challenge and difficulty of defining reli­ gion, especially at a time when a number of secularization theories

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were emerging, had already begun, as of 1968, an extensive study of what he was then referring to as “secular religion.” He argues that “the conceptual need to reestablish the secular ramifications of what appertains to a religious order, or to a hierarchical church, or to a transcendent sacred, only proves the symbiotic relationship of the religious and the secular. Thus even a ‘secular’ form of religion will still need its ‘extramural’ forms of expression – if it is to be called a religion at all.”62 Although Bailey points to the common conception of “secular” as the antonym of “religion,”63 he appreciates that the two realities are inseparable. Etymology is insightful here. According to Bailey, it is the genitive case, saeculum or “of the age or world,” that captures what is frequently understood by “secular.”64 Without question, the sense of this worldliness is equally important for “reli­ gion.” However, it is the ablative case that best describes what dis­ tinguishes “religion” from “secular.” In saeculo means “in the age or world.” Religion, we might say, is in the world, but not of it.65 That is, while religion seeks to engage humans with and in the world, it also looks to transcend this worldliness. In this way, Bailey went on to fine­tune his classification of secular religion and began referring to the phenomenon as “the implicit reli­ gion of contemporary society” or, better, the implicit religiosity of the secular.66 He hypothesizes that any thing might be religious (this does not necessarily imply that all things are religious) and that, in the end, there is a mutual compatibility between religiousness and secularity because “most of experience is neither very or particularly or officially or unquestionably sacred or profane. It is somewhere in between.”67 Other scholars have also begun to situate particular worldviews as lying somewhere along a continuum between religion and secularity. For instance, Thomas Luckmann has written on invisible religion, Roland Robertson on surrogate religion, Arthur Greil on quasi­re­ ligion, and James Dittes and Roberto Cipriani on secular religion.68 Given that there exists an extensive amount of literature addressing the problem of defining religion, I limit my study to only those thinkers – such as Nick Bostrom, Gregory Jordan, Margaret Somerville, Patrick Hopkins, and Brent Waters – who have specifically entertained, either positively or negatively, the idea of transhumanism as a religion.

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transhumanism and secular religion “All religious systems – in practice if not in theory – have had to make some concessions to the frailties of human nature.”69 In this, philosopher Patrick Hopkins finds the locus of communication and comparability between religion and transhumanism, which “begin conceptually as reactions to a particular deflationary description of the human condition.”70 Although Hopkins reemphasizes the sharp distinction between transhumanist philosophy and religion, he never­ theless goes on to argue that, “transhumanism can be religious, in the sense that people can incorporate transhumanist methods and ideals into their religious aims.”71 Here, some might argue that Hopkins makes the mistake of diluting the integrity of the incorporated object, as if to say that transhumanist methods and ideals, once grafted into the religious experience, shed their transhumanist identity (which is professedly not “religious”) to somehow become “religious.” Although many transhumanists perceive religion as, for the most part, a constant hindrance to biological and technological progression, the tenets and structure of transhumanism have an uncanny resem­ blance to those of the world’s religions, which is why De Thézier decided to set up shop, as it were, in Quebec. In addition to transcendence, the yearning for eternity, and the ideal of perfection (more bodily in ori­ entation than the perfection of virtue that we see as a laudable pursuit in the Catholic tradition, for instance), other features include salvation with/in science (here, from disease, disability, ageing, inborn lack of talent), concern for and liberation from the blight of suffering, and a certain apocalyptic/eschatological expectation for what some transhu­ manists call “The Singularity,” which they describe as a “hypothetical point […] [w]ithin a very brief time (months, days, or even just hours)” when the world will be “transformed almost beyond recognition.”72 Nevertheless, Hopkins notes that even though many religious analogs can be found in transhumanist philosophy and ideology, the shared desire for transcendence being chief among them, incompat­ ibility between religion and transhumanism can easily be located in the choice of method73 and the realm where self­realization will come to perfection. According to Hopkins, whereas the religions might

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list “belief/faith (accepting propositions, taking attitudes),” “obedi­ ence (to moral codes or rituals),” and “practices (meditation, music, etc.)” as ways to achieve transcendence, transhumanists will point to technology as the way to overcome the limitations, banality, and ordinariness of the human condition. In any case, these “methods of transcendence” are as different between transhumanism and religion as they are between the world’s religions themselves.74 To be sure, the subject of transhumanism as religion remains con­ tentious, even in transhumanist circles. Whereas some scholars are interested in introducing a conversation between religion and trans­ humanism,75 others are ready to offer what appears to be an “apolo­ gia for transhumanist religion.”76 Bostrom is convinced that: While not a religion, transhumanism might serve a few of the same functions that people have traditionally sought in religion. It offers a sense of direction and purpose and suggests a vision that humans can achieve something greater than our present con­ dition. Unlike most religious believers, however, transhumanists seek to make their dreams come true in this world, by relying not on supernatural powers or divine intervention but on rational thinking and empiricism, through continued scientific, technolog­ ical, economic, and human development. Some of the prospects that used to be the exclusive thunder of the religious institutions, such as very long lifespan, unfading bliss, and godlike intelli­ gence, are being discussed by transhumanists as hypothetical future engineering achievements.77 The functional compatibility of religion and transhumanism is frequently underscored by philosophers working in the field, but Bostrom and others affirm that even though transhumanism may function as a religion, it is not one. Although Somerville alludes to the possibility of classifying transhumanism as a “secular religion,” she seems to share Bostrom’s conclusion. Transhumanism is not just a new concept; more accurately, it is a new world view, or perhaps even a secular religion [...]. For

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the transhumanists, the power of technoscience allows a new form of transcendence and transformation: going beyond and transforming ourselves by becoming posthuman. We can see transhumanism as an expression of the longing for transcendence and, through that, transformation. Transhumanists seek this experience and outcome through science, and we must therefore acknowledge a link between science, transcendence, and transfor­ mation just as there is a link between religion, transcendence, and transformation. In this respect, science and religion are playing the same role and facilitating the same human experience. One might even say that sometimes science functions as a “religion.”78 In this sense, a secular religion is a phenomenon that professes itself not to be religion, but shares many of the same functions that we ordinarily attribute to religion.79 Indeed, Somerville argues that, “many Quebecers, including politicians, even those not overtly hos­ tile to traditional religion, believe religion has no place in the public square. They espouse the idea of a strictly secular society – laicization [...] such secularism can be a form of religion, a ‘secular religion.’”80 Contrary to Bostrom’s rejection of transhumanism as religion, philosopher­ethicist Brent Waters claims that “[t]he transhuman­ ists’ frequent appeals to unfettered reason, rejection of all dogma, and atheistic materialism do not make their faith­based move­ ment any less religious.”81 He argues that proponents of posthu­ manism address questions about what endures after psychological enhancement or uploading or what the “post” in “posthuman” actually entails “by offering implicitly religious answers.”82 This turn, Waters suggests, “perhaps accounts for both the shrill denun­ ciation of traditional religion and fervent evangelism on behalf of technoscience, as well as their eagerness to wrap themselves in the mantels of profane humanism and late liberalism as a means of demonstrating their irreligion. This move, however, is not a decep­ tive strategy disguising a hidden agenda. The strident rhetoric and urgent desire to be coupled with liberal humanism may signify an unacknowledged unease with the leap of faith that transhumanists are undertaking.”83

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In the end, like religion, transhumanists also engage in talk about “hopes” and “beliefs.” Waters is not convinced that transhumanism is merely something that can be compared to religion. He is in agree­ ment with education researcher Gregory Jordan, who contends that protechnological transhumanism­associated philosophies “have cre­ ated the right conditions for the development of a new type of reli­ gion.”84 Waters elaborates on this point: The prospect of becoming posthuman is not a profane, postmodern alternative to a modern paradigm, mired and encumbered by primi­ tive and un­exorcized religious beliefs. Rather, posthuman discourse represents idiosyncratic religious sentiments that have been forged in postmodern and historicist rhetoric which retains, albeit in a highly eclectic structure, a providential and progressive grammar. Posthumanism is not a postmodern alternative to lingering religious beliefs, but is itself a contending postmodern religion.85 Jordan states that a number of “prominent characteristics of prototypical religion” can, in some way, be found in transhuman­ ism.86 Among other things, he explains how belief in (or aspiration to become) “god­like beings” is not foreign to transhumanism; that even though transhumanists do not, as far as we can tell, engage in ritual activity, they do possess “symbolic representations of shared meaning in the form of [...] art” and dabble in distinctive practices (like cryonics); how “[a]n all­encompassing scientific epistemology, combined with theories of sufficient provisional explanatory powers, may soon give rise to a comprehensive world view”; that transhu­ manists have developed a system of values; that transhumanist faith in the future is rooted in the “belief in the ‘possibility and desirability’ of developing advanced technologies to ‘improve the human condi­ tion’”; that transhumanism possesses a “profoundly religious vision of the transcendent”; and that transhumanism may also stir religious feelings of “absolute dependence” on technology.87 Interestingly, Jordan calls for the development of transhumanist religious language so that transhumanists are given “the tools they need to better com­ municate their message to others.”88

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In the end, Waters and Jordan share a similar intention: “portray­ ing transhumanism as a religious movement is not intended to dis­ credit it in the eyes of a so­called secular world. To the contrary, it is precisely its religious trappings that make it a force to be taken seriously by theologians.”89 If what we speak of here is a “contending postmodern religion” replete with its own eschatological and soter­ iological claims, then it stands alongside (or against) the visions of other religious traditions – in this case, Roman Catholicism – “in respect to how theology might inform a technological transforma­ tion of nature and human nature.”90 At issue here is not whose moral vision is more appealing or more credible – although this is a fasci­ nating and important question – but whether the classification of these newly formulated worldviews as contending “postmodern reli­ gions” or “secular religions” is merely antagonizing or insightful vis­ à­vis how the emerging technoculture will be shaped.91 Another objective here is to press the task, entrusted to academics and practitioners alike, of determining that which constitutes “reli­ gion” lest we leave the province of religion (and the study thereof) without structure, purpose, or border. Is it enough to agree that reli­ gious functions can be detected in secular life? Is secular religion a useful category at all? “[W]e are just at the beginning of a new age of religious searching,” philosopher Charles Taylor writes, “whose outcome no one can foresee.”92 Québécois transhumanism – a fascinating study in the comingling of Catholic fundamentals and familiarities, deep­rooted political desires, and investment in the biotechnological revolution – under­ lines a common penchant for liberation from lamentable conditions and control over forces that have been tolerated, some might say, for far too long. Quebec nationalists call for autonomy over the province’s sociocultural and political life. Transhumanists champion the use of science and technology to rise above the limitations of the body and usher in a new kind of unhindered existence. Roman Catholics pray for humankind’s deliverance from the powers of sin and death through Christ. The concern for sovereignty in Quebec finds a counterpart in the transhumanist desire for self­government that culminates in complete morphological freedom, entailing the

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right to modify the body as one pleases without interference from external influence. Further research in this area would not only require a proper defi­ nition of religion and secularity93 that does not limit itself “to either the forms or the effects,”94 but also the construction of a clear typol­ ogy that accounts for the many shades of combination with transhu­ manism and other techno­religions that are finding accommodation in the cultural milieu of Quebec.

Afterword Randall Balmer

For students of religion in North America, Quebec provides an intriguing counterpoint. Aside from its linguistic peculiarities – the relative isolation of Quebec in North America created a “linguistic island” that retains many sixteenth­century idioms – Quebec is the only region of North America dominated by French language and culture. With the exception of Mexico and the arguable exception of New Mexico, the overwhelmingly Roman Catholic composition of Quebec, dating to colonial times, also is unique. Finally, the dramat­ ically rapid secularization of Quebec stands in contrast to the rest of North America where, until very recently, religious adherence was fairly durable. This latter point merits further comment. In the United States, the religious disestablishment encoded into the First Amendment of the Constitution set up a free marketplace for religion, where religious “entrepreneurs” compete with one another for popular followings. Setting aside any normative comments about the quality of reli­ gious life in the United States, the separation of church and state has ensured a remarkably salubrious and dynamic religious marketplace throughout the nation’s history. Given the American experience, one might expect that the loosening of ties between the Quebec govern­ ment and the Roman Catholic Church during the Quiet Revolution (Révolution tranquille) would have unleashed new religious energies in the province, that a surge of new religions – what the British would call “dissenters” – might have ensued. Some of that happened, to be sure – and the Spiritualists of Montreal provide an example – but

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new religious energies in Quebec seem attributable more to the influx of immigrants than to the slackening of governmental favour. I won­ der why this is so, why the “marketplace” narrative so familiar to anglo scholars seems less applicable to Quebec, and I commend the question to those seeking to build on this very useful volume. The new religious groups, ranging from Pentecostal to various iterations of New Age, clearly are more nimble and more respon­ sive than Catholicism, although the Catholic church in Quebec of necessity began to make adjustments in response to the diminution of both parishioners and vocations, dating back to the Catholic Action movement earlier in the twentieth century. This volume also confirms that religious life in Quebec is adapting to the changing ethnic com­ position of the province. That in no way minimizes the difficulty that immigrant and non­Christian religions face in Quebec. As Meena Sharify­Funk and Elysia Guzik point out, not only must newcomers deal with Christian majorities, they must also contend with Québécois who value the hard­won secularization of recent decades and are therefore suspi­ cious of religious accoutrements, including the kirpan and the hijab. As in the United States, these religious minorities might be forgiven for suspecting that their religious symbols and customs are being singled out for censure in a society still putatively Christian, where Christian symbols abound. I am especially gratified to see the emphasis on religion in rural Quebec, a focus that is all but nonexistent among students of reli­ gion in the United States. Several Protestant seminaries in the United States retained rural ministry programs into the 1950s, offering cur­ ricula that specifically prepared seminarians for pastoral careers in rural areas. Sadly, the suburbanization of the postwar era doomed those programs, despite the fact that religious adherence is often more robust outside of the cities. Scholars of religion in the United States followed suit and have largely ignored the study of religious life in rural areas. This volume, especially the essays by Hillary Kaell and by Frédéric Parent and Hélène Charron, demonstrates the folly of that neglect and points the way for a productive engagement of the topic. These studies also suggest that opportunities for women

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in religious life may in fact be greater in rural areas than in cities. Hillary Kaell’s study of wayside crosses that populate rural Quebec, for example (as well as the larger, more elaborate calvaires, a name that reflects their Breton and Norman derivation), provides a superb case study of popular devotion, sacred space, folk rituals, gender roles, and adaptation to shifting demographics. For students of religion in the United States, the virtue of “lived religion” lay in abetting the move away from institutional forms of religion toward religious phenemonology, but the term (among anglo scholars, at least) has become so protean and capacious as to render it almost meaningless: What is not “lived religion”? Although the term arguably has degenerated into a cliché and may have outlived its usefulness among students of religion in the United States, Kaell, together with Emma Anderson’s study of Quebec pilgrimage sites and Norma Baumel Joseph’s study of Iraqi folkways, offers a compelling case for its utility for the study of religion in Quebec. Judging from several essays here, it appears that “lived religion” (la religion vécue) still has currency for the study of religion in Quebec – which may in turn be attributable to the fact that the study of institutional forms of religious life in Quebec has not yet been as thoroughly eclipsed as it has elsewhere in North America. This historiographical turn, which is apparently still in prog­ ress, has yielded some very promising studies, including those of Pentecostal immigrants and indigenous music. In addition, the per­ sistence of pilgrimages, even after the secularization brought on by the Quiet Revolution, suggests the durability of traditional faith in Quebec, although it is decidedly lay, rather than clergy, driven. At least one observer believes that this is not at all a bad development, that the pilgrims’ expressions of piety are more heartfelt than formu­ laic, as was the case before the Quiet Revolution. Religion in Quebec, which was profoundly reshaped by the Quiet Revolution, bears many distinctive characteristics, including long­ standing and durable folk religious practices, the emphasis on heal­ ing (whether through pilgrimage or other less­conventional means), and an evolving legal understanding of the relationship between church and state, religion and politics, individual piety and public

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display. But there are commonalities with religion elsewhere in North America as well. In response to secularization and multiculturalism, Québécois, like others in North America, have become spiritually eclectic and highly individualistic in their religious pursuits, increas­ ingly suspicious of clerical authority. This is true for evangelicals as well. Though it is often supposed that Catholics are more susceptible to anticlericalism, the anticlericalism among evangelicals may be less obvious, but it is no less real. Catholic anticlericalism emerges from the absence of options: A parishioner has little say in the choice of a pastor, much less a bishop or a pope. Evangelical anticlericalism, on the other hand, manifests itself in the fluidity of affiliations; if you don’t like a particular leader, you simply decamp for another congregation – and pastor – more to your liking. As the religious options in Quebec increase, I suspect that more and more Québécois – Catholic, evangelical, immigrant, New Age, and others – will exer­ cise the option of choice, and, just as likely, anticlericalism will abate. This volume about religion in Quebec, which is eclectic in its own way, offers a fascinating glimpse into religious life into a purlieu of North America long neglected by most (anglophone) students of reli­ gion. Rich in comparative possibilities, it will serve as a solid founda­ tion for further inquiry.

Notes

I nt ro du ct i o n 1 “Church. Synagogue. Mosque. sacred. Equality for women and men. Religious neutrality of the state. also sacred.” Advertisement in cbc News, “Charter of Quebec values would ban religious symbols for public workers,” accessed 10 September 2013. http://www.cbc.ca/ news/canada/montreal/charter­of­quebec­values­would­ban­religious ­symbols­for­public­workers­1.1699315. 2 “Here we go again.” Stéphane Baillargeon, “Charte des valeurs québé­ coises – Brûler pour ne pas s’éteindre,” Le Devoir, accessed 3 September 2013. http://www.ledevoir.com/societe/medias/386503/ charte­des­valeurs­queecoises­bruler­pour­ne­pas­s­eteindre. 3 Bernard Drainville, “Projet de loi no 60: Charte affirmant les valeurs de laïcité et de neutralité religieuse de l’État ...” Assemblee Nationale, Proposed Law (Éditeur officiel du Québec, 2013). 4 “Tsunami” in Brin, Giasson, and Sauvageau, “Le bon, la brute et le raciste,” 433. They refer to the 2006–08 accommodation crisis but it applies to 2013 as well. Although polemical, a good summary of the media coverage is Bernard La Rivière, Enfin la laïcité (Montreal: xyz Éditeur, 2014) 17–35. 5 The authors have opted to use “Québécois” (pronounced “Kebekwa”), which is the standard designation in French, rather than the common English Canadian term, “Quebeckers” (or “Quebecers”). 6 Rousseau, “Préface,” in L’étude de la religion au Québec, edited by Larouche and Ménard. 7 In fact, the highly publicized Bouchard­Taylor commission seems to have created a surge in complaints against minority religions: 55 per cent of the seventy­three accommodation cases in the past twenty­two

260

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years were brought forward from March 2006 to June 2007. Gerard Bouchard and Charles Taylor, Building the Future: A Time for Reconciliation (Montreal: Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, 2008), 18, 19–20. 8 For example, Richard, La nation sans religion?, 1–29. This theme is less prominent but also relevant in anglo­Canada: Beaman, Religion and Canadian Society. 9 On theme two: Snyder and Pelletier, Qu’est-ce que le religieux contemporain?; and Mager and Cantin, Modernité et religion au Québec. On theme three: Rousseau, Le Québec après Bouchard-Taylor; and Gélinas, “Les fonctions identitaires de la religion en milieu autoch­ tones au Canada,” 173–94. 10 See for example: Larouche and Ménard, L’étude de la religion au Québec; Lefebvre, La religion dans la sphère publique; Lefebvre and Beaman, Religion in the Public Sphere; Bouchard and Gagnon, Éthique et culture religieuse. A good example of how scholarship and pragmatic concerns intersect is the work of Jean­Philippe Perreault, who holds a chair at Laval in Leadership en enseignement Jeunes et religions. His sociological work tracks trends in youth spirituality, and he also develops training for public school teachers in the provincial government’s new Ethics and Religious Culture curriculum. 11 Gauchet, La religion dans la démocratie, 47–50; “Moral Supremacy” in Taylor, “Foreword: What Is Secularism?” xx. 12 Gauchet, Le désenchantement du monde, 292. Gauchet’s influence is most evident on the group of scholars included in Mager and Cantin, Modernité et religion au Québec. Sociologist Danièle Hervieu­Léger’s work has also been influential. On clergy and secularism: Baum, “Catholicism and Secularization in Quebec.” 13 “Recul historique” in Rocher, “La laïcité de l’État,” 30. “Cultural Archeology” in Lucier, “Le patrimoine immatériel des communautés religieuses et ses traces dans la culture.” He is referring specifically to religious orders. See also Boutin, “Mémoire selective et tradition,” 69; and Rousseau, Le Québec après Bouchard-Taylor, 5. 14 “Fact of religion” in Koussens, “Review of Louis Rousseau,” 109–12; Rousseau, Le Québec après Bouchard-Taylor, 5. Rousseau notes that officially the Bouchard­Taylor commission was about “cultural differ­ ences” and government­funded programs and research groups often use “ethnicity” or “culture” to sublimate religious questions. Statistics

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in Meunier, Laniel and Demers, “Permanence et Recomposition de la ‘religion culturelle,’” 92, 106–7, 122. 15 Taylor, A Secular Age, 507–9. See, e.g., Solange Lefebvre, Cultures et spiritualités des jeunes (Quebec: Bellarmin, 2008), 9, 11. Recent vol­ umes that take this perspective with Canadian cases include Douglas Farrow, Recognizing Religion in a Secular Society: Essays in Pluralism, Religion and Public Policy (Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2004); Laliberté, Berman, and Bhargava, Secular States and Religious Diversity. Gauchet also noted how the secular and religious are mutually constituted in La condition historique, 251–2, 54. 16 The initial impetus arose out of a meeting I had with Kyla Madden, editor at McGill­Queen’s University Press, in 2012. Over the next year, I recruited chapter writers partly based on people whose work I knew (i.e., Norma Joseph and Emma Anderson) but mainly after ask­ ing the advice of senior colleagues in leading religious studies depart­ ments across Quebec. Géraldine Mossière and Deirdre Meintel had collaborated closely in the past but otherwise most of us were un­ known to each other. Apart from Sharify­Funk and Jérôme (who was not yet added to the project), all the principal contributors were pres­ ent for the Montreal symposium. 17 Since the late 1990s, some scholars of religion in Canada have made a concerted effort to bridge this gap. The work of Reginald Bibby, Michael Gauvreau, Solange Lefebvre, and Gregory Baum is note­ worthy, as well as Terence Murphy and Roberto Perin, eds., Concise History of Christianity in Canada (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1996). On contemporary religion, a chapter about Quebec is generally included in volumes on Canadian religion, however it is often only one. Anglophone scholars are occasionally included in French­language volumes but usually to provide chapters on Protestantism or Judaism (e.g., Larouche and Ménard, L’étude de la religion au Québec). US audiences remain generally unaware of trends in Quebec. An important exception is Tentler, The Church Confronts Modernity, which Louis Rousseau, a veteran scholar of Quebec religion, recommends for this very reason (“Review of The Church Confronts Modernity,” 195–7). Sociologists Geneviève Zubrzycki, Margarita Mooney, and David Martin are also among those who have written about Quebec; the latter two have included

262

18

19

20

21

Notes to pages 6–7 it as a comparative case in studies of immigration and secularism, respectively. One of the few English­language volumes on Quebec studies is Rudy, Gervais and Kirkey’s Quebec Questions. Unfortunately, it offers little on religion (although it has one chapter about pre­1960s education). Raymond Lemieux, Le comté de Lévis: structure sociale et vie religieuse (Quebec: Centre de recherches en sociologie religieuse, 1970); and Colette Moreux, Fin d’une religion? Monographie d’une paroisse canadienne-française (Montreal: Presses de l’Université de Montréal, 1969). The broader trend towards “histoire vécue” (also, histoires de vie) is often associated with Fernand Dumont’s Idéologies au Canada français project in the 1970s. Gilles Houle (in Quebec) is also notable in this field, as are 1950s–60s studies of religious practic­ es in working­class parishes in France by sociologists such as François­André Isambert and Emile Pin. Robert Straughton Lynd and Helen Lynd, Middletown: A Study in Modern American Culture (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1929); and Horace Miner, St Denis: A French-Canadian Parish (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1939). On inspiration for studies in Quebec in the 1960s and 1970s see Guy Rocher, “Préface,” and Colette Moreux, “Avant­propos: objet et méthode de recherche,” in Fin d’une religion? Monographie d’une paroisse canadienne-française, edited by Colette Moreux (Montreal: Presses de l’Université de Montréal, 1969); Roger Bastide’s monograph is Social Origins of Religion, first published in French in 1935. The best description of this perspective remains Orsi, “Everyday Miracles.” On the impact of French scholarship, Hall, “Introduction,” vii. Although it differs epistemologically from the “lived religion” project, there is also substantial work by Québécois folklorists on “popular Catholicism” (e.g. Benoit LaCroix, Jean Simard, Luc Lacourciere). Besides Hall on lived religion, see McGuire, Lived Religion and, in Canada, Christie and Gauvreau, Christian Churches and Their People. Many of the contributors are in religious studies departments and most, for the purposes of this volume, have incorporated some aspect of ethnography into their studies. Contributors might be classed roughly as working in the domains of history (Anderson), sociology (Parent, Charron), information science (Guzik), Islamic and Jewish

Notes to pages 7–10

22

23

24

25

26

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studies (Sharify­Funk, Joseph), ethics (Labrecque), anthropology (Jerome, Meintel), and anthropologically inflected religious studies (Mossiere, Kaell). This pattern is true of many anglo­Canadian studies of contemporary religion too. A significant reason undoubtedly has to do with how all scholars labour under certain economic conditions. In Canada, the pub­ licly funded system of university chairs and grants favours studies of re­ ligion with clear “public impacts” and “knowledge mobilization plans” (to use current granting language) that align with governmental aims. For example, Snyder and Pelletier, Qu’est-ce que le religieux contemporain? Emma Anderson’s chapter does include an important discus­ sion about how priests shape the experience of, and respond to, contemporary pilgrims. I should also note that scholars have long called for attention to “les aspects expérientiels et vécus de la reli­ gion,” especially in terms of Québécois Catholicism. For example, Jean­Guy Vaillancourt, “Présentation: Contributions à la nouvelle so­ ciologie du catholicisme,” 4–18. Sociologie et sociétés, 22:2 (1990), 8. However, such pioneering studies understood “religion vécue” differ­ ently than we do here; they retained a strong focus on sociological statistics, work by theologians, and studies of institutional Catholicism, including religious orders and Vaillancourt’s own work on the Pope. Lemieux, “Le dynamisme religieux des cultures francophones,” 15. Other information from Allan Greer, The People of New France (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997), 45; and Nive Voisine, Histoire de l’Église catholique au Québec (1608–1970) (Montreal: Éditions Fides, 1971), 11, 21–2. Louis Rousseau and Frank W. Remiggi, Atlas historique des practiques religieuses: Le sud-ouest du Quebec au 19ième siècle (Ottawa: Ottawa University Press, 1998); Solange Lefebvre, “Catholic Sanctuaries in Quebec,” in Religion and Canadian Society: Contexts, Identities, and Strategies, 2nd edition, edited by Lori G. Beaman (Toronto: Canada Scholar’s Press, 2012), 70. “Holy Remnant” in Baum, The Church in Quebec, 16. On settling next to Protestants, for example, the Bishops set up the Association pour la colonisation des Townships, an English area of the province. Voisine, Histoire de l’Église catholique au Québec, 44. On the French “strategy for the west” see Fay, A History of Canadian Catholics, 163–6.

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Notes to pages 10–12

27 Kathleen Sprows Cummings, New Women of the Old Faith: Gender and American Catholicism in the Progressive Era (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009), 32–3: Ursulines, such as Marie de l’Incarnation, were the ultimate female heroines for US Catholics in this period. Early American Catholics, including the daughter of patriot Ethan Allan and Charles Carroll, the only Catholic signer of the Declaration of Independence, had connections to Quebec: the former joined a Montreal convent and the latter led a diplomatic mission there. On the symbolic power of Quebec for Protestants, Maria Monk’s infamous Confessions were set in Montreal. Earlier, the Quebec Act prompted intense anti­Catholicism that fueled the American Revolution (Fessenden, Culture and Redemption, 48–9). 28 For example, Benoit Lacroix, La foi de ma mère (Montréal, Bellarmin, 1999), 14. French writer Louis Hémon’s Maria Chapdelaine (1913) is the classic expression of this sentiment. Its most famous line is: “Au pays de Québec, rien n’a changé. Rien ne changera” (In the land of Quebec, nothing has changed. Nothing will change). Louis Hémon, Maria Chapdelaine (Montréal: Fides, 1990), 194. 29 Leslie Woodcock Tentler, ed. The Church Confronts Modernity: Catholicism Since 1950 in the United States, Ireland, and Quebec (Washington, dc: Catholic University Press of America, 2007), 4–5. 30 Ibid. At least on rural farms. French­Canadians in Montreal had about half as many children. 31 A short English­language summary of the period is Fay, A History of Canadian Catholics, 246–53. On Duplessis: Troper, The Defining Decade, 39. 32 Eminent sociologist Fernand Dumont argued that there were two suc­ cessive revolutions: one that began in 1960 and another in 1966 that brought Quebec in line with broader global trends. 33 Tentler, The Church Confronts Modernity, 6. Quebec also has one of the highest abortion rates in any industrialized country. 34 For a polemic by intellectuals supporting laïcité, see Baril and Lamonde, Pour une reconnaissance de la lacite au Quebec. This idea still regularly appears in media. On the wayside crosses that I study, see for example Isabelle Éthier, “Que sont devenues les crois de che­ min de nos campagnes?” Le coopérateur agricole 35, no. 2 (2006): 48. 35 Meunier and Warren, Sortir de la Grande noirceur.

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36 Routhier, “Governance of the Catholic Church in Quebec.” 37 Seljak, “Resisting the No Man’s Land of Private Religion,” 132–5, 145. Baum, The Church in Quebec, 40–1, 159–60. 38 Gauvreau, “Without Making a Noise,” 186–218. 39 Canada’s immigration history is similar to other major “receiving” countries, the US and Australia. It was the first of these countries to dismantle its racist laws. Government of Canada, “Forging Our Legacy: Canadian Citizenship and Immigration, 1900–1977.” Citizenship and Immigraton Canada, accessed 2 July 2014. http:// www.cic.gc.ca/english/resources/publications/legacy/chap-6.asp. 40 Bibby and Archambault, “La religion à la carte au Québec,” 153. Baum, The Church in Quebec, 35. 41 Hervieu­Leger, Religion as a Chain of Memory. 42 On statistics: Hudon and Hubert, “The Emergence of a Statistical Approach to Social Issues in Administrative Practices of the Catholic Church in the Province of Quebec,” 48–9. On grandes missions: Routhier, “Governance of the Catholic Church in Quebec,” 300. On histories: I refer here to Nive Voisin’s Histoire de l’Église catholique au Québec (1971), which was produced with André Beaulieu and Jean Hamelin, a collaboration that resulted in the three­volume Histoire du catholicisme québecois (1984) that remained the standard text on Québécois religious history for many years. In his 1990 call for a “new sociology of Catholicism,” Vaillancourt summed up the earlier state of the field as “une espèce de sociographie empiriciste de la pratique dominicale au service de la pastorale ecclésiastique.” Jean­ Guy Vaillancourt, “Présentation: Contributions à la nouvelle sociolo­ gie du catholicisme,” 4–18, Sociologie et sociétés, 22:2 (1990), 4. 43 Ménard, “Les Déplacements du sacré et du religieux,” in Larouche and Ménard (2001), 238. Bergeron was a Franciscan until he left the order in 1997. Cortège des fous de Dieu (1982) was his groundbreak­ ing work on nrms. 44 Ménard offers a nice summary of some American and French scholar­ ship circulating in Quebec in the 1970s–80s, as well as the resulting thesis projects that emerged in the 1990s. Ménard, “Les Déplacements du sacré et du religieux,” in Larouche and Ménard (2001), 240, 243. 45 Dumas, “Mutations contemporaines du religieux,” 15. The French reads, “[une] personne entrée en religion, vivant en communauté pour oeuvrer à une mission spécifique dans l’église.”

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46 For example, Lemieux and Milot, “Les croyances des Québécois.” Denis Jeffrey was also prolific in early studies of youth spirituality and ritualization. His more recent work includes “Rites de passage au monde adulte” in L’imaginaire urbain et les jeunes, Boudreault et Parazelli, eds. (Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université de Montréal, 2004) and “Zombie Boy et les tatouages à l’adolescence” in Codes, corps et rituels dans la culture jeune. Jeffrey and Lachance, eds. (Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2012). Scholars have also tracked post­Vatican II Catholic conservatism (intégrisme), notably in the so­ ciological surveys and typologies developed by J.G. Vaillancourt and his student, Martin Geoffroy. For a brief comparison of Québécois and anglo­Canadian scholarship in this period, see Peter Beyer, “Canadian Study of Religion,” In William H. Swatos, ed., Encyclopedia of Religion and Society (Walnut Creek, ca: AltaMira Press, 1998), 70–1. 47 Deirdre Meintel and Marie­Nathalie LeBlanc, eds., Anthropologie et sociétés, special issue “Le religieux en mouvement,” 27(1) 2003. On the legitimacy of “sects,” also Jean Duhaime and Guy­Robert St­ Arnaud, eds., La peur des sectes (Fides 2001). 48 Ménard and Larouche, L’étude de la religion au Québec, 2. My trans­ lation of “Pour diverses raisons, cependant, parmi lesquelles il y a sans doute lieu de signaler un tenace contentieux de la société québécoise avec son propre passé religieux, ce foisonnement d’intérêts diversifies demeure encore fort peu – et souvent bien mal – connu.” 49 Étienne Balibar, “Dissonances dans la laïcité,” Mouvements, 33–4 (2004), 156–7. Reprinted in part as “Dissonances within Laïcité: Constellations” 11:3 (2004): 353–67. Thanks to Elayne Oliphant for drawing my attention to his work. 50 Quebec’s public education system was divided into Catholic and Protestant education boards. It began to be dismantled in the 1960s but it was not until June 2005 that Loi 95 was passed, which replaced confessional religious education courses with a mandatory Ethics and Religious Culture (erc) course. The law gave rise to significant politi­ cal and legal disputes. Curriculum changes came into effect in 2011. 51 In part, nrms are underrepresented in this volume because I became aware that another collection was in the works on this topic, edited by Susan Palmer and Martin Geoffroy and forthcoming with

Notes to pages 16–19

52

53

54

55

56 57 58

59 60

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Palgrave­Macmillan Press. Interested readers would do well to read both volumes together. A good overview of the discussion in Quebec is Eid et al., Appartenances religieuses, appurtenance citoyenne: Un équilibre en tension (Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2009). A number of studies also directly compare French laïcité and anglo­American secularism: Amiraux, “Religious Discrimination”; Jean Baubérot and Séverine Mathieu, Religion, modernité et culture au Royaume-Uni et en France, 1800–1914 (Paris: Seuil, 2002); Gunn, “Religious Freedom and Laicite,” 7–24. With many Quebec examples see, e.g., Maclure, Taylor, and Todd, Secularism and Freedom of Conscience, a direct translation of their earlier, Laicite et liberte de conscience. Cf. Baillargeon and Piotte, Le Québec en quête de laïcité, 13. This is not to imply that Bouchard and Taylor came up with the term inter­ culturalism, although their commission popularized it. Baril and Lamonde, Pour une reconnaissance; Lamonde, L’heure de verité; Bernard La Rivière, Enfin la laïcité (Montreal: Éditions xyz, 2014). Rousseau, Le Québec après Bouchard-Taylor, 8. Since the mid­2000s, the Centre d’études ethniques des universités montréalaises has fund­ ed a number of important group projects in this regard. Scholars working in allied fields, especially Jewish studies, also produced rele­ vant work on Montrealais Judaism in the1980s and 1990s, including pioneering histories by Pierre Anctil, Ira Robinson, and Yolande Cohen. The Institute for Canadian Jewish Studies at Concordia University, created in 1999, has developed this work further. Rousseau, Le Québec après Bouchard-Taylor, 11; Bastenier, Qu’est-ce qu’une société ethnique? This is also the central idea in one of the few in­depth sociological studies of Arab Canadians: Eid, Being Arab, ix. Gerard Bouchard and Charles Taylor, Building the Future: A Time for Reconciliation (Montreal: Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, 2008), 18. Lenclud, “Qu’est­ce que la tradition?,” 33. Meyer and Houtman, Things: Religion and the Question of Materiality, 4–9.

268

Notes to page 20

61 Twain quote from the Montreal Gazette and New York Times (10 December 1881), reprinted in Paul Fatout ed., Mark Twain Speaking (Iowa: University of Iowa Press, 1976), 159. 62 Handler, “The Ritualisation of Ritual in the Construction of Heritage,” 49. Regarding secularization and the role of Québécois clergy and female religious who have worked alongside academics and bureaucrats, see Gilles Routhier, “Les enjeux du débat actuel sur le patrimoine religieux,” Argument: politique, société et histoire 8:2 (2006): np. 63 The Council dates to the mid­1990s. “Historique,” Conseil du patri­ moine religieux du Québec, Ministère de la culture, des communica­ tions, et de la condition féminin, accessed 20 October 2016, www. patrimoine­religieux.qc.ca/fr/a­propos/historique. 64 Ibid. Lefebvre, “Catholic Sanctuaries in Quebec,” 73. Government­ supported university chairs are given to individuals for a specified amount of time and group together students and researchers to fund joint research, publications, and conferences. Those that work on reli­ gious heritage include the Chaire du Canada en patrimoine eth­ nologique and Chaire unesco en patrimoine culturel (both at Université Laval); Chaire du Canada et patrimoine (uqam); Chaire sur la gestion de la diversité culturelle et religieuse (Université de Montréal); Chaire Fernand­Dumont sur la culture (inrs). Recent edit­ ed volumes, most of which arose from conferences and/or the chairs above, include Turgeon, Spirit of Place; Drouin and Richard­Bazire, La Selection Patrimoniale; Noppen and Morisset, Les églises du Québec. A comprehensive volume is Solange Lefebvre, ed. Le Patrimoine religieux du Québec: Éducation et transmission du sens, préface de Jocelyn Groulx (Quebec, Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2009). 65 Rocher and Pelchat, Le Patrimoine des minorités religieuses au Québec, xviii. 66 My paraphrase of “la continuité est [donc] dans la rupture” from Berthold and Dormaels, “Introduction,” in Patrimoine et sacralisation, edited by Berthold, Dormaels and Josée Laplace, (Quebec: Éditions Multi Mondes, 2009), 12. 67 Along these lines, the provincial government established North America’s only world religions museum. Located in Nicolat, it edu­ cates visitors about Hinduism, Judaism, Islam, Christianity, and

Notes to pages 23–6

68 69

70

71 72

73 74

75

76

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Buddhism. “About the Museum,” Musée des religions du monde, ac­ cessed 18 June 2015, http://www.museedesreligions.qc.ca/ who­are­we. Stark, “How New Religions Succeed.” My thanks to Susan Palmer for alerting me to his study. A number of scholars have worked on this topic, including Solange Lefebvre, J.­P. Perreault, and Denis Jeffrey. Some of their work is cited in endnotes above. Richard Bergeron, Alain Bouchard, and Pierre Pelletier, Le Nouvel âge en question (Montreal: Éditions Paulines, 1992). Produced for the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops, it follows other studies from this period in offering a Catholic perspective on nrms (see end­ note 44). Palmer, pers. comm., 25 February 2016. Susan Palmer and Solange Lefebvre, “New Religions in Quebec,” New Religious Movements Workshop at McGill University, 25 April 2014. Major scholars in Quebec working on these or adjacent themes include Alain Bouchard (noted above), Claude Rochon, and Deirdre Meintel, a contributor to this volume. Christie and Gauvreau, Christian Churches and Their Peoples, 2 Curtis, “The Study of American Religions,” 368. For specific ways that religion in Canada and the US have interacted and how the for­ mer sheds light on the latter see Westfall, “Voices from the Attic.” American historians Mark Noll and Robert T. Handy are notable ex­ ceptions. Both have written about North America, including the US and (mainly anglo) Canada. For Canadian scholars of religion, the importance of Quebec will be more readily apparent. Its impact includes the presence of Catholicism in the public sphere and the highest echelons of federal government, the development of publicly funded Catholic schools, and the rise of morally inflected values viewed as uniquely Canadian (e.g., multicul­ turalism) that stem from the 1963 Report of the Royal Commission on Bilingualism and Biculturalism. Alan Gordon, “Teaching Québec: Why Québec’s History Matters to English Canada,” Canadian Issues (Summer 2013): 47–50.

270

Notes to pages 31–3

Chapter One 1 Herbert J. Gans, “Symbolic ethnicity: The future of ethnic groups and cultures in America.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 2, no. 1 (1979): 1–20. 2 Stephen R. Warner and Judith G. Witnner, Gatherings in Diaspora: Religious Communities and the New Immigration (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998); Helen R. Ebaugh and Janet S. Chafetz, Religion and the New Immigrants (Walnut Creek, ca: AltaMira Press, 2000). 3 Raymond Lemieux and Micheline Milot, Les croyances des Québécois: esquisses pour une approche empirique (Québec: Groupe de recherche en sciences de la religion, Université Laval, 1992). 4 Géraldine Mossière and Deirdre Meintel, “Tradition and Transition: Immigrant religious communities in urban contexts (Québec),” in Religion in the Practice of Daily Life, edited by Richard D. Hecht, and Vincent F. Biondo (Westport, ct: Greenwood & Praeger, 2010). 5 Enquête nationale auprès des ménages, 2011. www12.statcan.gc.ca/ nhs­enm/index­fra.cfm 6 Annick Germain, Julie­Elizabeth Gagnon and Anne­Lise Polo, L’aménagement des lieux de culte des minorités ethniques: enjeux et dynamiques locales (Montreal: Institut National de la recheche, 2003). 7 From 2006 to 2014, Deirdre Meintel directed an extensive research project that aimed to document the diversification of the religious landscape in Quebec. Coresearchers included Marie­Nathalie Le Blanc, Josiane Le Gall, John Leavitt, Claude Gélinas, and Géraldine Mossière. It was funded by the Fonds Québécois de la recherche – Société et culture (fqrsc) and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (sshrc). 8 Joanildo A. Burity, “‘Entrepreneurial Spirituality and Ecumenical Alterglobalism’: Two Religious Responses to Global Neoliberalism,” in Religion in the Neoliberal Age: Political Economy and Modes of Governance, edited by Tumoas Martikainen and François Gauthier (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2013). 9 Toumas Martikainen and François Gauthier, Religion in the Neoliberal Age: Political Economy and Modes of Governance (New York: Routledge, 2016), 1.

Notes to pages 33–42

271

10 François Gauthier, Toumas Martikainen, and Linda Woodhead, “Introduction: Consumerism as the Ethos of Consumer Society,” in Religion in the Neoliberal Age: Poltical Economy and Modes of Governance, edited by Tuomas Martikainen and François Gauthier (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), 1–24. 11 Joel Robbins, “The Globalisation of Pentecostal and Charismatic Christianity,” Annual Review of Anthropology 33 (2004). 12 Géraldine Mossière, “Reconnue par l’autre, respectée chez soi: la con­ struction d’un discours politique critique et alternatif par des femmes converties à l’Islam en France et au Québec,” Revue Diversité Urbaine 8, no. 2 (2008): 37–59. 13 Refer to note 6. 14 http://acparolevivante.org/; “église multiethnique où se côtoient fran­ cophones, anglophones et hispanophones, noirs, blancs, métis, afric­ ains, québécois, latino, haïtiens, dans l’harmonie et la fraternité en Jésus­Christ notre Seigneur et Sauveur.” 15 “assemblée multiculturelle (...) qui compte parmi ses membres des personnes de divers pays.” 16 Juteau, “Les ambiguïtés de la citoyenneté”; Bouchard, “Qu’est ce que l’interculturalisme ?” McGill Law Journal/Revue de droit de McGill 56, no. 2 (2011): 395–468; Bouchard and Taylor, Fonder l’avenir. See also Sharify­Funk and Guzik, this volume. 17 Géraldine Mossière and Josiane Le Gall, “Immigration et intégration chez de jeunes croyants pratiquants montréalais: repenser la condition de minoritaire,” Diversité urbaine 2 (2012): 13–34. 18 Pierre Joseph Laurent, Les Pentecôtistes Du Burkina Faso. Mariage, Pouvoir et Guérison (Paris: Karthala, 2003). 19 Ruth Marshall­Fratani, “‘Power in the Name of Jesus’: Social Transformation and Pentecostalism in Western Nigeria Revisited,” in Legitimacy and the State in Twentieth-Century Africa. Essays in Honour of A.H.M. Kirk-Greene, edited by Terence Ranger and Olufemi Vaughan (London: Palgrave, 1993); Bernice Martin, “The Pentecostal Gender Paradox: A Cautionary Tale for the Sociology of Religion,” in The Blackwell Companion of Sociology of Religion, ed­ ited by Richard K. Fenn (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2001); Elizabeth Brusco, “The Reformation of Machismo: Evangelical Conversion and Gender in Colombia,” (Austin, Texas: University of Texas Press, 1995).

272

Notes to pages 42–8

20 Maité Maskens, “Identités sexuelles pentecôtistes: féminités et mascu­ linités dans des assemblées bruxelloises,” in Autrepart 49, no. 1 (2009): 65–81; Sandra Fancello, “Afrique élève l’Europe: Pentecôtisme, afrocentrisme et démocratie,” in Chrétiens africains en Europe, Prophétisme, pentecôtisme et politique des nations, edited by Sandra Fancello and André Mary (Paris: Karthala, 2010), 207–41. 21 Sarah Demart, “Genre et transgression des normes morales et sex­ uelles dans les Églises de réveil (à Kinshasa et en diaspora),” Revue Cahiers d’études africaines, no. 212 (2013): 783–811; Afé Adogamé, “‘I am married to Jesus!’ The feminization of new African diasporic religiosity,” in Archives des sciences sociales des religions, no. 143 (2008); Niara Sudarkasa, “The Status of Women in Indigenous African Societies,” in Women in Africa and the African Diaspora, edit­ ed by Rosalyn Terborg­Penn, Sharon Harley, and Andrea Benton Rushing (Washington, dc: Howard University Press, 1987). 22 Paul Freston, “Reverse Mission: A Discourse in Search of Reality?” PentecoStudies: An Interdisciplinary Journal for Research on the Pentecostal and Charismatic Movements 9, no.2 (2010): 153–74. 23 Fancello, “Afrique élève l’Europe,” 207–41. 24 Géraldine Mossière, “Transmission et appropriation de modèles mat­ rimoniaux pentecôtistes auprès de jeunes congolais: des discours sur le genre, l’ethnicité et les rapports d’autorité,” in Femmes et pentecôtismes. Enjeux d’autorité et rapports de genre, edited by Gwendolyne Malogne­Ferand and Yannick Fer (Genève: Labor et Fides, 2015). 25 Statistics Canada, accessed 26 April 2015. http://www.statcan.gc.ca/ tables­tableaux/sum­som/l02/cst01/famil01b­fra.htm. 26 Joan W. Scott, “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis,” The American Historical Review 91, no. 5 (1986). 27 Martikainen and Gauthier, Religion in the Neoliberal Age. 28 The Prosperity Gospel refers here to the third wave of Pentecostalism. 29 David Maxwell, African Gifts of the Spirit: Pentecostalism and the Rise of a Zimbabwean Transnational Religious Movement (Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 2007). 30 Géraldine Mossière, “Réseaux pentecôtistes, activités d’évangélisation, et émotions partagées parmi des Congolais établis à Montréal: ‘un cosmopolitisme de charisme’?” in Le protestantisme évangélique à

Notes to pages 48–55

31 32

33

34 35

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l’épreuve des cultures, collection, edited by Yannick Fer and Gwendolyne Malogne­Fer (Paris: l’Harmattan, 2014). Saba Mahmood, The Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005). Ruth Marshall­Fratani, “Mediating the Global and Local in Nigerian Pentecostalism,” in Between Babel and Pentecost: Transnational Pentecostalism in Africa and Latin America, edited by Andre Corten and Ruth Marshall­Fratani (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001), 85. Sarah Demart, “Le ‘combat pour l’intégration’ des églises issues du Réveil congolais rdc,” Revue européenne de migrations internationales 24(3) (December 2008), 147–65. Burity, “‘Entrepreneurial Spirituality and Ecumenical Alterglobalism,’” 22. Freston, “Reverse Mission: A Discourse in Search of Reality?”

C h a p t er T wo 1 Bienvenue, Quand la jeunesse entre en scène: L’action catholique avant la révolution tranquille (Montreal: Boréal, 2003); Lucie Piché, Femmes et changement social au Québec: l’apport de la Jeunesse ouvrière catholique féminine, 1931–1966 (Quebec City: Presses de l’Uni­ versité Laval, 2003). 2 Jean­Pierre Warren and Martin E. Meunier, Sortir de la Grande noirceur: L’horizon personnaliste de la Révolution tranquille (Sillery: Éditions du Septentrion, 2002), 347–448; Michael Gauvreau, The Catholic Origins of Quebec’s Quiet Revolution, 1931–1970 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2005). 3 Denyse Baillargeon, “Une révolution religieuse,” Revue d’histoire de l’Amérique française 60, no. 3 (2007). 4 Bérard, Prêtres, diacres, laïcs, 8. 5 Denise Veillette, ed., Femmes et religion (Quebec City: Presses de l’Université Laval, 1995). 6 Pierrette Daviau and Louis­Charles Lavoie (La spiritualité au mitan de la vie: Étude comparative du féminin et du masculin [Quebec City: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2008], 128) have recently observed through interviews that men are more dismayed by the disappearance of parishes: “A few people (especially men) are having trouble dealing

274

7

8 9

10 11

Notes to pages 55–7 with the disappearance of parishes; they’ve ended up facing a certain vacuum, a lack of nourishment for their faith and for its expression. They have the impression that everything is crumbling, that what they have learned and practiced for many years is no longer worth anything.” Anita Caron, “Bien présentes ... mais trop souvent invisibles. Recherche menée sur la contribution des femmes dans deux paroisses de Montréal (1945–1985).” In Femmes et religion, edited by Denis Veillette (Quebec City: Presses de l’Université Laval, 1995), 159–79. Hélène Charron, Les formes de l’illégitimité intellectuelle. Les femmes dans les sciences sociales françaises 1890–1940 (Paris: cnrs Édition, 2013). In the parish under study, religious practice has dwindled to nearly 10 per cent of the total population, that is about one­hundred­and­ sixty people, with those over sixty and women overrepresented among the practising. For additional details on religious practice, see Martin E. Meunier, Jean­François Laniel and Jean­Christophe Demers, “Permanence et recomposition de la ‘religion culturelle.’ Aperçu socio­historique du catholicisme québécois (1970–2006),” in Modernité et religion au Québec: Où en sommes-nous?, edited by Robert Mager and Serge Cantin (Ste­Foy, Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2010). In 2007, Church authorities were already talking about adding four more parishes to the grouping that today, in 2014, includes nine. Born under the French regime in the seventeenth century and trans­ formed under successive political regimes, the vestry has gradually be­ come a corporation with the right to own and acquire goods aimed at worship. The transformations of the vestry in Quebec are said to have been “such as to favour a greater integration of laypeople” and the different laws about it “were meant to allow churchwardens and pa­ rishioners to play a greater role within the vestry and as a result, to allow priests to be increasingly relieved of the financial management of the parish” (André Boucher, “Le rôle joué par les marguilliers,” in Le laïc dans l’Église canadienne-française de 1830 à nos jours, edited by René Durocher, (Montreal: Fides, 1972), 163). In the parish under study, the vestry’s men are descendants of the pioneer families who have helped to build the church and who have been among the signa­ tories of the request addressed to the diocese to get a resident priest, in which these founding families committed themselves to paying the

Notes to pages 57–60

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

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future priest in money and in kind (potatoes, firewood, grain). A more extensive analysis of the place of churchwardens and the vestry in pa­ rochial civilization – quite likely peculiar to Quebec – would allow us to qualify the supposed power of the Church over the “people” prior to the Quiet Revolution. Beyond academic training in theology, the practising faithful continu­ ally receive complementary courses offered by the different Church structures (such as diocesan services), but they are not recognized by the Church. Among the population of the village under study, there are those who regret the end of catechesis courses while others, on the contrary, think it is preferable that this training be given by people di­ rectly trained by the Church. The priest is however not insensitive to this local life and is constantly trying to get involved in it, but in a completely different way than be­ fore, something which the older parishioners (men) have trouble ac­ cepting. Instead of doing his annual parish visit, he attends the public events organized in the parish. “He only wants to be seen,” some believe. Frédéric Parent, “Des sociologues en campagne: sociographie de la différenciation sociale du Québec rural francophone,” Recherches sociographiques 55, no. 2 (2014): 227–52. For further explorations of the opposition between the “established” (founding population) and “marginal,” see the excellent ethnographic work by Norbert Elias and John L. Scotson (The established and the outsiders; a sociological enquiry into community problems (London: Frank Cass Publishers, 1965)) in a working­class neighbourhood of England in the 1950s. Gilles Routhier, “La paroisse, ses figures, ses modèles et ses représen­ tations,” in Paroisses et ministères. Métamorphoses du paysage paroissial et avenir de la mission, edited by Gilles Routhier and Alphonse Barras (Montreal: Médiaspaul, 2001). The Voluntary Annual Contribution (Contribution volontaire annuelle – cva) was put in place at the end of the 1990s to replace the tithe. For other manifestations of the gendered division of labour, see in particular Hillary Kaell’s chapter on wayside crosses and Norma Baumel Joseph’s chapter on commensality among Jewish Iraqis.

276

Notes to pages 61–70

19 The Local Facilitation Team (Équipe d’animation locale) replaces the Pastoral Parish Council (Conseil paroissial de pastorale – cpp) that disappeared with the 2006 institutional reform. The Local Facilitation Team supervises the life of parish associations. 20 On the basis of a 2001 inquiry by questionnaire in thirteen dioceses on twenty, theologian Pierre Goudreault, Célébrer le dimanche en attente d’eucharistie (Montreal: Novalis, 2003), 16, mentions that it is women in an overwhelming majority who organize and animate ad­ aces: “Thus, in the 185 parishes involved, it is 437 women and only 133 men who animate these celebrations.” 21 Veillette, Femmes et religion. 22 Micheline Laguë, “Femmes et célébration eucharistique: jalons his­ toriques et symbolisme,” Théologiques 10, no.1 (2002): 207–28. 23 Caron, “Bien présentes ... mais trop souvent invisibles.” 24 Goudreault, Célébrer le dimanche en attente d’eucharistie, 10. 25 Sunday ceremonies in the absence of a priest are not a recent phenom­ enon in the parish under study and more generally in nineteenth­cen­ tury colonization parishes. From early colonial times, parishioners would gather in a private house until they obtained a resident priest nearly twenty years later. We are back to the time of missions, as the Catholic Church of Quebec suggested in one of its 2005 publications entitled Mission nouvelle évangélisation. 26 The frequency of adaces rises in more “remote” regions in the dioces­ es of Amos, the Gaspe and Rouyn­Noranda (Goudreault, Célébrer le dimanche en attente d’eucharistie). 27 Albert Piette, La religion de près: L’activité religieuse en train de se faire (Paris: Métailié, 1999), 116. 28 The pastoral delegate states: “No, we don’t want to reproduce a mass. We put more emphasis on readings. That’s where the emphasis is. Mass is not exactly that, since it’s Jesus who comes down to us through the consecration. We don’t have that part and that’s why we put more emphasis on the readings to really try to understand what the readings are saying.” 29 The expression “new population” only means that the person was not born in the village. 30 For more details on the status of deacon, usually applying to married men, see the inquiry by Céline Béraud, Prêtres, diacres, laïcs:

Notes to pages 70–5

277

Révolution silencieuse dans le catholicisme français. (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2007). 31 Parent, Un Québec invisible: Ethnographie d’un village de la grande région de Québec (Quebec City: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2015). 32 The Brebis de Jésus (literally “Ewes of Jesus”) were founded during the second half of the 1980s by a Franciscan sister, but its official rec­ ognition by the Catholic Church was only obtained in 2006. The Brebis de Jésus are an evangelization movement aimed at awakening faith and educating it, especially for young people starting at age three. The Brebis’s expansion continues in the rest of Canada and in many other countries in Latin America and Africa. The motherhouse is located on Île d’Orléans; this is where the sisters give training to adults who want to become Shepherds (Berger or Bergère) in the spir­ itual guidance of children in a parish. 33 Goudreault, Célébrer le dimanche en attente d’eucharistie; Daviau and Lavoie, La spiritualité au mitan de la vie.

C h a p t e r T h re e 1 Frédéric Laugrand and Jarich Oosten, “Connecting to the Dead: Inuit Drum Dances and Head Lifting Rituals in Nunavut,” Études mongoles et sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines (2008): 38–9. 2 Robert Bousquet and Marie­Pierre Crépeau, eds., Dynamiques religieuses autochtones des autochtones des Amériques/Religious Dynamics of Indigenous People of the Americas (Paris: Karthala, 2012) for different case studies; Laurent Jérôme, “Les cosmologies au­ tochtones et la ville: sens et appropriation des lieux à Montréal,” Anthropologica 52, no. 2 (2015): 327–39 for a discussion on urban expressions of aboriginal cosmologies; Frederic Laugrand and Robert Crépeau, “Shamanism, Religious Networks and Empowerment in Indigenous Societies of America,” Anthropologica vol. 57, no. 2 (2015), for a presentation of the continuity and the transformations of shamanism. 3 Jean­Guy Goulet, “Legal Victories for the Dene Tha?: Their Significance for Aboriginal Rights in Canada,” Anthropologica 52, no. 1 (2010): 15–31; Jean­Guy Goulet “Le lien inaliénable entre le Créateur et les Premières Nations: Une dimension méconnue des affir­ mations identitaires au Canada et au Québec,” in Dynamiques

278

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Notes to pages 75–7 religieuses des autochtones des Amériques/Religious Dynamics of Indigenous People of the Americas, edited by Robert R. Crépeau and Marie­Pierre Bousquet (Paris: Karthala, 2012), 25–61. Adrian Tanner, “The cosmology of nature, cultural divergence, and the metaphysics of community healing,” in Figured Worlds: Ontological Obstacles in Intercultural Relations, edited by John R. Clammer, Sylvie Poirier and Eric Schwimmer (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004). Kathleen Buddle, “Media, Markets and Powwows: Matrices of Aboriginal Cultural Mediation in Canada,” Cultural Dynamics 16, no. 1 (2004), 29–69. Naomi Adelson, ‘Being alive well’: Health and the Politics of Cree Well-Being (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000); Adelson “Gathering knowledge,” in Aboriginal Autonomy and Development in Northern Quebec and Labrador, 289–303 (Vancouver: University of British Columbia University Press, 2001). Laugrand, “Premiers catéchismes et méthodes catéchistiques des mis­ sionnaires anglicans et oblats chez les Inuit de l’Arctique de l’Est (1852–1937),” 9–29. Olivier Servais, Des jésuites chez les Amérindiens ojibwas: Histoire et ethnologie d’une rencontre, XVIIe-XXe siècles (Paris: Karthala, 2005). Clinton Norman Westman, “Understanding Cree Religious Discourse.” Phd diss. (University of Alberta, 2008). Tanner, “The cosmology of nature,” 189–222. Marie­Pierre Bousquet, “Catholicisme, pentecôtisme et spiritualité traditionnelle?” in Les systèmes religieux amérindiens et inuit: Perspectives historiques et contemporaines, edited by Claude Gélinas and Guillaume Teasdale (Quebec: Muséologie In­Situ, 2007), 155–66. Frédéric Laugrand, Mourir et renaître: La réception du christianisme par les Inuit de l’Arctique de l’Est canadien (Quebec: Presses de l’Uni­ versité Laval, 2002). Atikamekw ancestral lands (Nitaskinan) cover the territory of Haute­ Mauricie in central Quebec. The Atikamekw Nehirowisiwok, number­ ing about 6,000 individuals, live in three communities: Wemotaci, Manawan, and Opitciwan. They belong to the great Algonquian semi­ nomadic language family and have been involved for twenty­five years in a process of political and land claims with governments. See among others Véronique Audet, “Les chansons et musiques popu­ laires innues,” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 35, no. 3

Notes to page 77

279

(2005a); Véronique Audet and Innu Nikamu, “Expression musicale populaire, affirmation identitaire,” Master’s thesis (Université Laval, 2005b); Nicole Beaudry, “Présentation. Chants et tambours,” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 15, no. 4 (1985), 2–4; Beaudry, “Présentation. Fêtes et musiques,” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 18, no. 4 (1988), 2–4; Beaudry, “La composition des chants amérindiens” Les Cahiers de l’ARMuQ, no. 14 (1992), 1–13; Beaudry, “Subarctic Canada,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, edited by Bruno Nettl, Ruth M. Stone, James Porter, and Timothy Rice, 383–93 (New York: Garland Publishing, 2001); Beverly Cavanagh, “The Transmission of Algonkian Indian Hymns,” in Musical Canada: Words and Music Honouring Helmut Kallmann, edited by John Beckwith and Frederick A. Hall (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1988), 3–28; Beverly Diamond, Visions of Sound: Musical Instruments of First Nations Communities in North Eastern America (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1994); Beverly Diamond “Popular Music,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, edited by Bruno Nettl, Ruth M. Stone, James Porter, and Timothy Rice, 1279–82 (New York: Garland Publishing, 2001); Lynn Whidden, “How Can You Dance to Beethoven? Native People and Country Music,” Canadian University Music Review, no. 5 (1984); Lynn Whidden, “Les hymnes, une anomalie parmi les chants tradition­ nels des Cris du Nord,” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 15, no. 4 (1985). Lynn Whidden, An Ethnomusicological Study of the Traditional Songs of the Chisasibi Cree (PhD diss., Université de Montréal, 1986); Whidden, “A Note on Métis Music,” Canadian Folk Music Bulletin 24, no. 1 (1990). One must also note Frances Densmore’s colossal collection in the first half of the twentieth centu­ ry, which is far too voluminous to cite here, however a complete bibli­ ography is Charles Hofmann’s book Densmore and American Indian Music, A Memorial Volume (New York: Museum of the American Indian, 1968). 12 Michael McNally, Ojibwe Singers Hymns, Grief, and a Native Culture in Motion (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000). 13 This contribution is an updated version of an article published in a themed issue of the journal Recherches amérindiennes au Québec (Laurent Jérôme, “Musique, tradition et parcours identitaire de jeunes Atikamekw la pratique du tewehikan dans un processus de

280

Notes to page 78

convocation culturelle,” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 35, no. 3 (2005): 19–30.) and a chapter published in Natacha Gagné and Laurent Jérôme, “Pour quelle participation?” in Jeunesses autochtones: Affirmation, innovation et résistance dans les mondes contemporains (Ste­Foy, Québec and Rennes: Les Presses de l’Université Laval and Les Presses de l’Université de Rennes, 2009). My thanks goes out again to Mary Coon, Marcel Boivin, Charles Coocoo, Simon Coocoo, the members of the group Wemotashee Singers, as well as Wemotaci Atikamekw Council. In its initial version, this text was en­ riched by the comments of Sylvie Poirier, Richard Lioger, Charles Coocoo, Christian Coocoo, David Boivin, Ayami Chilton, and Yvon Chilton. I thank them for their careful reading. 14 See Beverly Diamond and Anna Hoefnagels, Aboriginal Music in Contemporary Canada: Echoes and Exchanges (Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2012); Amber Ridington, “Continuity and Innovation in the Dane­zaa Dreamers’ Song and Dance Tradition: A Forty­Year Perspective,” in Aboriginal Music in Contemporary Canada: Echoes and Exchanges, edited by Anna Hoefnagels and Beverley Diamond (Montreal and Kingston: McGill­ Queen’s University Press, 2012); Esther J. Tulk, “Localizing Intertribal Traditions: The Powwow as Mi’kmaw Cultural Expression,” in Aboriginal Music in Contemporary Canada, edited by Anna Hoefnagels and Beverley Diamond (Montreal and Kingston: McGill­ Queen’s University Press, 2012), 70–88. 15 Gender issues of powwow drumming have been well discussed by eth­ nomusicologist Anna Hoefnagels in two very interesting papers: “Complementarity and Cultural Ideals: Women’s Roles in Contemporary Canadian Powwows,” Women and Music: A Journal of Gender and Culture 16 (2012): 1–22; “Aboriginal Women and the Powwow Drum: Restrictions, Teachings, and Challenges,” in Aboriginal Music in Contemporary Canada: Echoes and Exchanges, edited by Anna Hoefnagels and Beverley Diamond (Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2012). In Quebec, Aboriginal women are increasingly participating in the development of powwow music by standing around the drum singing with men but also by forming their own powwow drum groups. 16 Richard Preston, “Traditions musicales et culturelles chez les Cris de l’Est,” ches amérindiennes au Québec 15, no. 4 (1985): 19–28.

Notes to pages 79–83 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33

281

Ibid., 26. Ibid. Ibid. Audet, “Expression musicale populaire, affirmation identitaire.” Arthur Maurice Hocart, “Are Savages Custom­Bound?” Man 27 (1927): 220–1. Gérard Lenclud, “Qu’est­ce que la tradition?” in Transcrire les mythologies, edited by Marcel Détienne, (Paris: Albin Michel, 1994), 33. Lamont Lindstrom, “Leftmap Kastom: the Political History of Tradition on Tanna (Vanuatu),” Mankind 13, no. 4 (1982), 317. Gérard Lenclud, “La tradition n’est plus ce qu’elle était,” Terrain 9 (1987). Jean Pouillon, “Tradition: transmission ou reconstruction,” in Fétiches sans fétichisme, edited by Pouillon Jean (Paris: Maspero, 1975). Jean Pouillon, “The Ambiguity of Tradition: Begetting the Father,” in Present Is Past: Some Uses of Tradition in Native Societies, edited by Marie Mauzé (Lanham, Maryland: University Press of America, 1997). Lenclud, “La tradition n’est plus ce qu’elle était,” 118. A formulation Lenclud borrows from Ricœur. See also Jack Goody, “Mémoire et apprentissage dans les sociétés avec ou sans écriture: la transmission du Bagre,” L’Homme 17, no. 1 (1977): 29–52; Michael Harkin, “A Tradition of Invention : Modern Ceremonialism on the Northwest Coast,” in Present Is Past: Some Uses of Tradition in Native Societies, edited by Marie Mauzé (Oxford: University Press of America, 1997); Jocelyn Linnekin, “Defining Tradition: Variations on the Hawaïan Identity,” American Ethnologist 10, no. 2 (1983); Marie Mauzé, “On Concepts of Tradition,” in Present is Past: Some Uses of Tradition in Native Societies, edited by Marie Mauzé (Oxford: University Press of America, 1997). Identités atikamekw, directed by Corentin Adolphy and Gaetan Saint­ Rémy (Belgique: Sep Stigo, 2007), dvd. P.M., Personal interview, June 2005. D.B., Personal interview, October 2004. Frank G. Speck, Naskapi: The Savage Hunters of the Labrador Peninsula, (Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press), 178. Paul Lejeune cited in Guy Laflèche, Le Missionnaire, l’apostat, le sorcier (Montréal: Presses de l’Université de Montréal, 1973), 43–4.

282

Notes to pages 83–4

34 Speck, Naskapi, 31. 35 Ibid. 36 Toponym code T6.41, see André Dandenault et al., Aménagement hydro-électrique du Haut-Saint-Maurice, Toponymes Atikamekw, map no. 5 (Éditions Inter: 1989). 37 Y.C., Personal interview, June 2003. 38 A.C, Personal interview, nimihotcik matina, dance mountain, unre­ corded toponym, October 2005. 39 Anee De Sales, Je suis né de vos jeux de tambours: la religion chamanique des Magar du Nord (Nanterre: Société d’ethnologie, 1991). Peter Armitage, “Religious Ideology among the Innu of Eastern Quebec and Labrador,” Religiologiques 6 (1992). Harvey A. Feit, “Dreaming of Animals: the Waswanipi Cree Shaking Tent Ceremony in Relation to Environment, Hunting and Missionization,” in Circumpolar Religion and Ecology: An anthropology of the North, edited by Takashi I. and T. Yamada (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1994), 289–316. Mémoire Battante, Directed by Arthur Lamothe (Montréal: Les ateliers audiovisuels du Québec, 1984), dvd. 40 Robert A. Brightman, Grateful Prey: Rock Cree Human-Animal Relationship (Regina: Canadian Plains Research Center, 1973; re­ print, University of Regina, 2002), 104. 41 See Laugrand, “Connecting to the Dead,” 419–70. 42 Elaine Keillor, “Les tambours des Athapascans du Nord,” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 15, no. 4 (1985), 43. 43 This information about the etymological construction of the term tewehikan is drawn from the cross­referencing of different sources: of certain drummers and other people in Wemotaci who are in­ volved in current processes showcasing practices and bodies of knowledge, as well as various Native language dictionaries, specifi­ cally Innu, Ojibwa, and Algonquin (Frederic Baraga, A Dictionary of the Ojibway Language [Minnesota: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1992]; Lynn Drapeau Dictionnaire montagnais-français [Sillery: Presses de l’Université du Québec, 1991]; the most relevant one for this term being Jean­André Cuoq, Lexique de la langue algonquine [Montréal: J. Chapleau et fils, 1886], 317, 399). Atikamekw technolinguists trained in linguistic and etymological re­ search who are working to preserve Atikamekw culture and lan­ guage would no doubt be able to add certain details about the

Notes to pages 84–96

44 45 46

47 48 49 50

51

52 53 54 55 56 57

58

283

construction of this term. Hoping that this future is near, here is for the time being what these various sources of Atikamekw knowledge and the Algonquian language family can say about it. See also Speck, Naskapi, 178. Ibid., 176. Laurent Jérôme, “Identifications, relations et circulation des savoirs chez les Atikamekw,” in Nature des esprits et esprits de la nature dans les cosmologies autochtones / Nature of Spirits and Spirits of Nature in Aboriginal Cosmologies, edited by Frédéric Laugrand and Jarich Oosten, (Québec: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2007). L.P.B., Personal interview, March 2003. On this note, also see Norma Jospeh’s chapter in this volume. Ayami, Personal interview, August 2003. This interdiction reflects more recent reevaluations of the powwow as sacred and deserving of respect; forty or fifty years ago, they also al­ lowed alcohol. See among others Valda Blundell, “Une approche sémiologique du powwow contemporain canadien,” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 15, no. 4 (1985), 53–66; Clyde Ellis, A Dancing People: Powwow Culture on the Southern Plains (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2003); Luke E. Lassiter, The Power of Kiowa Songs: A Collaborative Ethnography (Tucson, Arizona: University of Arizona Press, 1998); Preston, “Traditions musicales et culturelles chez les Cris de l’Est.” Jack Campisi, “Powwow: A Study of Ethnic Boundary Maintenance,” Man in the Northeast, no. 9 (1975), 44. See Buddle, “Media, Markets and Powwows,” 29–69. Preston, “Traditions musicales et culturelles chez les Cris de l’Est.” A.C., Personal interview, November 2003. I thank Wapan for this information. See the article by Pamela Stern, “Subsistence: Work and Leisure,” Études/Inuit/Studies 24, no. 1 (2000), on relations between concepts of work and leisure and subsistence activities among the Inuit. Thanks to Louis­Jacques Dorais for this reference. Kanapé Fontaine, “Lettre aux diffuseurs de la future émission de variétés intitulée,” https://natashakanapefontaine.wordpress. com/2015/04/20/lettre­aux­diffuseurs­de­la­future­emission­de­variet­ es­intitulee­pow­wow­2/, accessed 22 April 2015.

284

Notes to pages 97–100

59 Alain Babadzan, Naissance d’une tradition (Paris: Orstom, 1982); Babadzan, “Inventer des mythes, fabriquer des rites?” 309–18; Babdzan, “L’invention des traditions et le nationalisme,” Archives européennes de sociologie 25, no.2 (1984). 60 Sylvie Poirier, “Présentation La dépolitisation de la culture? Réflexion sur un concept pluriel,” Anthropologie et Sociétés 28, no. 1 (2004), 9. 61 Alain Reyniers, “Musique et affirmation culturelle dans une commu­ nauté tsigane de Transylvanie,” Ethnologie française 30, no. 3 (2000), 401. Neil J. Savishinsky, “Rastafari in the Promised Land: The Spread of a Jamaican Socioreligious Movement Among the Youth of West Africa,” African Studies Review 37, no. 3 (1994). 62 See Laurent Jérôme “L’anthropologie à l’épreuve de la décolonisation de la recherche dans les études autochtones: un terrain politique en contexte Atikamekw,” Anthropologie et sociétés 32, no. 3 (2008): 97– 122. Jérôme, “Pour quelle participation?,” 471–86.

Chapter Four I want to acknowledge the invaluable help of Rose Ftaya in the research and editing of this paper. 1 Jean­Anthelm Brillat­Savarin, The Physiology of Taste: Or Meditations on Transcendental Gastronomy, translated by M.F.K. Fisher [1825] (reprint, New York: Knopf, 2009), 15. 2 See the work of David Kraemer, Jewish Eating and Identity through the Ages (New York: Taylor & Francis, 2007); and John Cooper, Eat and Be Satisfied: A Social History of Jewish Food (New Jersey: Jason Aronson, 1993). 3 Note the diversity of articles in Leonard Greenspoon, Ronald Simkins, and Gerald Shapiro, eds., Food and Judaism (Omaha, Nebraska: Creighton University Press, 2005). 4 See Joseph Lévy and Yolande Cohen, “Moroccan Jews and Their Adaptation to Montreal Life,” in Renewing Our Days: Montreal Jews in the Twentieth Century, edited by Ira Robinson and Mervin Butovsky (Montreal: Véhicule Press, 1995). 5 This study is based on many years of research, observation, interviews, and group discussions. I first met this community when my husband be­ came their rabbi in 1970. I began serious study of the community in the

Notes to pages 100–2

6

7

8 9

10 11

12

285

1990s using both ethnographic and oral history methodologies. Looking into their foodways as indicative of gender and identity pat­ terns introduced me to the growing field of food studies, and I edited a volume of Nashim on gender, food, and survival in 2003. See the comparative representation of Jews, Italian, and Irish immi­ grants to New York in Hasia R. Diner, Hungering for America: Italian, Irish, and Jewish Foodways in the Age of Migration (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 2001). The process of making Sabbath food was so significant that accusa­ tions against women formed the basis of many inquisitorial trials. See Renée Levine Melammed, Heretics or Daughters of Israel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). Quoted in Gil Marks, Encyclopedia of Jewish Food (New Jersey: John Wiley & Sons, 2010), 129. The migration of the Iraqi Jews is an interesting case study from many perspectives. This story has been researched and told in Israel where the majority of Iraqis live, but the diasporic passage has re­ mained largely uncharted. There is a growing collection of memoirs from the diaspora; see, Aviva Ben­Ur, Sephardic Jews in America: A Diasporic History (New York and London: New York University Press, 2009); Cohen, “Historical Memory and History.” For an Israeli perspective see Esther Meir­Glitzenstein, “Longing for the Aromas of Baghdad: Food, Emigration and Transformation in the Lives of Iraqi Jews in Israel in the 1950s,” In The Social Scientific Study of Jewry: Studies in Contemporary Jewry, Vol. 28, edited by Uri Rebhun (Oxford University Press [forthcoming]). These nostalgic images were relayed to me consistently whether in the form of structured interviews or friendly chatting. The use of the word pogrom is debated amongst scholars of the Middle East. The category of crimes is easily recognizable with this usage. However, it locates the event within a European context, which is not always appropriate for understanding of the Middle Eastern re­ ality. “Farhoud” is the Arabic term Iraqi Jews use for the riots that took place on the holiday of Shavuot during which they were merci­ lessly attacked. There were differences of class and status. But the only major group­ ing was the ethnic difference between the Babylonian community and the Kurdish Jews.

286

Notes to pages 102–7

13 See Calvin Goldscheider, “Immigration and the Transformation of American Jews: Assimilation, Distinctiveness, and Community,” in Immigration and Religion in America: Comparative and Historical Perspectives, edited by Richard Alba, Josh DeWind, and Albert Raboteau (New York: New York University Press, 2000), 202. 14 They used to call themselves Arab Jews. 15 This class level marks the Iraqis of Montreal as distinctly different from the mass that immigrated to Israel. 16 The use of the word “Babylonian” is instructive: at the time, Iraq was an evil country at war; “Babylon” bespeaks a rich long heritage; addi­ tionally, the name unites the community with others, most notably that of Israel. 17 In Arabic, “kahqa” or “ka’ak” is a generic for “cake” and is used throughout the Arabic­speaking world for many different baked goods. Amongst Iraqi Jews, used alone, the term refers almost exclu­ sively to a lightly flavoured small ring of dough, usually crunchier, that is not only served at shivas. 18 Reeva Spector Simon notes, “By the 1930s observers noted a laxity in Jewish religious practice.” The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in Modern Times (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 358. 19 Many informants told me this, including those who had gone through the internment camps themselves and those whose parents had related these experiences. 20 See for example Harvey Goldberg, ed., Sephardi and Middle Eastern Jewries (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1996). 21 See the absence of any mention of the Iraqis in James Torczyner in 2001 (Immigration and Integration, 242); and Calvin Goldscheider, “Boundary Maintenance and Jewish Identity: comparative and histor­ ical perspectives,” in Boundaries of Jewish Identities, edited by Susan A. Glenn and Naomi B. Sokoloff (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010). 22 Annick Germain, Julie­Elizabeth Gagnon, and Anne­Lise Polo, L’aménagement des lieux de culte des minorités ethniques: Enjeux et dynamiques locales (Montréal: Institut National de la recheche, 2003). 23 See Kaell in “Introduction” to this book wherein she explores the pre­ sumption that with modernity people would “naturally come to

Notes to pages 107–11

24

25 26 27

28 29 30

31 32 33 34

287

discard religious doctrine and societal rituals”; Calvin Goldscheider and Alan S. Zuckerman, The Transformation of the Jews (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985) did focus their study of the trans­ formation of the Jews on factors of demography and social cohesion and not ritual practice. This is not to say that there are not intellectuals in this group. Naim Kattan, who is acclaimed as a francophone Quebec writer, is part of this Iraqi community. See Carole Counihan and Penny Van Estrik, Food and Culture (New York: Routledge, 1997). Jordan D. Rosenblum, Food and Identity in Early Rabbinic Judaism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 2. The gendering of food studies combined with the scholarly disinterest in this field other than in anthropology is worthy of a separate study. See Belasco, “Food Matters,” 2002. Sherrie Inness, ed., Kitchen Culture in America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001). The Meaning of Food, directed by Carlo Petrini (2005; Toronto: Pie in the Sky Productions), Television, chap. 5, min 16. Claude Fischler, “Food Self and Identity,” Social Science Information 27, no. 2 (1988), 275. Food rejections or abstentions are as important in communal identity as food preferences. For example, pig avoidance fills a much larger profile than mere acceptance of Jewish dietary laws. See Rosenblum, Food and Identity in Early Rabbinic Judaism, 48–58. Joelle Bahloul. “From a Muslim Banquet to a Jewish Seder,” in Jews Among Arabs (New Jersey: The Darwin Press, 1989). See Rosenblum, Food and Identity in Early Rabbinic Judaism, 47. Mintz, “Food and Eating,” 26. Quebec can be considered secular in that it is a civil society and all can become citizens. It is democratic, operating on the rule of law and no one religious system is supposed to be prioritized. Yet, it is also a Christian society wherein Christian symbols, morality and holidays are still the norm. There is an ongoing debate full of ten­ sion and doubt. I use the term in this paper in the sense that the Iraqi Jews approach Quebec society. Quebec is not like Iraq where Islamic Law was the law of the land. In that sense Quebec and Canada are secular.

288

Notes to pages 112–18

35 Haym Soloveitchik, “Rupture and Reconstruction: The Transformation of Contemporary Orthodoxy,” Tradition 28, no. 4 (1994), 66. 36 Ibid., 67 and 69. 37 This concept is developed by Mary Douglas in the chapter “Self­ Evidence,” in Implicit Meanings (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), 276–318. 38 We do not hear any of the agony Pauline Wengeroff (Rememberings: The World of a Russian-Jewish Woman in the Nineteenth Century [1910] [reprint, translated by Henny Wenkart, Bethesda: University Press of Maryland, 2000]) expresses in her memoir, regarding when her husband forced the abandonment of kashrut. 39 When I gave an earlier version of this paper, an elderly Iraqi woman was incensed. She refused to accept the veracity of my report. She claimed that all Iraqi Jews knew the rules of kashrut and all were religious. 40 Emiko Ohnuki­Tierney, Rice as Self: Japanese Identities Through Time (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 129–30. 41 See the appendix for a detailed description and recipe. 42 Marks, Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, 127. 43 Ibid., 250–2. 44 Ibid. 45 In this I would disagree with Bahloul’s (1989) point vis­à­vis the use of beef to differentiate Jewish food from Muslim food for Middle Easterners. Iraqi’s use of chicken in this very Jewish dish does not dif­ ferentiate their food from Muslim food. 46 Marks, Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, 573, also notes the use of the egg. 47 This is a familiar refrain heard from women in North America and Israel. Any changes in the t’beet pattern are often gently mocked. 48 In her prime, their Nana made this Friday night dinner every Friday night. When she got older, her married children tried taking over the family celebration. It did not work. They all reverted back to grand­ ma’s house. Her food and her ways were the real way! This is not just about knowledge of a recipe, as her daughters are very good cooks. She herself confided in me that she does not like to cook but does it for the family.

Notes to pages 119–32

289

49 Standard English is Sabbath, Hebrew transliteration is Shabbat, but Iraqi pronunciation is Shabbath. 50 The reasons for this are complex and discussed in my as yet unpub­ lished paper “The Silencing of the Iraqi Jewish Community.” 51 Private and public discussions. 52 See Katherine Romanow, “Mufleta, Zaban and Sushi: The Development of the Mimouna and its Foodways from Morocco to Montreal,” master’s thesis (Concordia University, 2012).

C h a p t er F i ve 1 I incorporate the traditional month of Mary song from another group prayer I attended. 2 Jean Simard, Le Québec pour terrain: Intinéraire d’un missionaire du patrimoine religieux (Quebec: Les Presses de L’Université Laval, 2004); Paul Carpentier, Les Croix de Chemin (Ottawa: National Museum of Canada, 1981), 31, 54–5, 112–13. 3 This estimate includes new crosses and reconstructions. In other words, I do not refer precisely to 80 per cent of the crosses in existence in the 1970s. My estimate is based on a survey of locally pro­ duced books about crosses, as well as a 2012–13 telephone study I directed of 398 parishes, of which 199 had crosses. I also base this chapter on twenty­four months of intermittent fieldwork (2012–14), during which time I attended group prayers, cross benedictions, and springtime clean­ups. I and my RAs also conducted fifty one­ to two­ hour interviews with caretakers (about half in person and half over the phone) and I did twelve interviews with leaders in heritage societ­ ies or the Knights of Columbus. I also surveyed Colombien magazine from 1922–2007 and available village weeklies from 2006 to present. 4 Interviewees were not chosen because they were practising Catholics. Rather, based on the initial survey of 199 parishes, I identified four main types of crosses: those maintained by an individual on private land, by an individual on public land, by a municipality, or by a group (e.g. a historical society). My RAs then selected fifteen examples of each based on location (i.e. representing every Québécois diocese), our ability to trace caretakers’ contact information (not always easy for private individuals), and people’s willingness to speak with me. These

290

5

6 7

8

9

Notes to pages 132–4 contacts formed the basis for long­form interviews and fieldwork (see the endnote above). Martin E. Meunier, Jean­François Laniel and Jean­Christophe Demers, “Permanence et recomposition de la “religion culturelle.” Aperçu so­ cio­historique du catholicisme québécois (1970–2006),” in Modernité et religion au Québec: Où en sommes-nous?, edited by Robert Mager and Serge Cantin (Ste­Foy, Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2010), 92, 106–7, 122. Carpentier, Les Croix de Chemin, 42. Current statistics from my survey.  Caretakers invariably point to two main influences on their designs and construction methods: crosses they knew as children and crosses they have subsequently seen around Quebec. As noted, they are also influenced by broader trends in Catholic imagery (e.g. a more mod­ ernist aesthetic) and new building techniques. Fundamentally, I believe the crosses to be unique to the province (scholars have also cata­ logued them in other places where French­Canadians settled, such as Acadia and northern Ontario). Of course, other Christians build large crosses but I would not define them as croix de chemin per se since their history, aesthetic, and raison d’être differ. For example, US Protestants sometimes build large (plain) crosses along highways and, since I have been working on this project, people have told me that the descendants of Eastern European Catholics built crosses in the Canadian prairies and Ontario. The novena and communal rosary declined across North America, writes Paula Kane, “Marian Devotionalism since 1940: Continuity or Casualty?” in Habits of Devotion: Catholic Religious Practice in Twentieth-Century America, edited by James M. O’Toole (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 2004), 97. “Superstitions” in Michael Gauvreau, “Without Making a Noise: The Dumont commis­ sion and the Drama of Quebec’s Dechristianization, 1968–1971,” in The Sixties and Beyond: Dechristinization in North America and Western Europe, 1945-2000, edited by Michael Gauvreau and Nancy Christie (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013), 193. Edward S. Casey, “How to Get from Space to Place,” in Senses of Place, edited by Keith Basso and Steven Feld (Santa Fe, New Mexico: School of American Research Press, 1996), 24–6.

Notes to pages 134–5

291

10 Lori Beaman, Religion and Canadian Society, 2nd edition (Toronto: Canadian Scholars’ Press, 2012), 4. 11 David Koussens, “Review of Louis Rousseau, (dir), Le Québec après Bouchard­Taylor,” Études d’histoire religieuse 78, no. 2 (2012), 111, calls for scholars to “retrac[ent] l’émergence de nouveaux catholicis­ mes ethniques dans une province où le catholicisme ethnique cana­ dien­français a disparu depuis plusieurs décennies.” I do not mean to suggest that this statement represents his work in particular. I merely note the urban­centred bias often implicit in our work. 12 Examples drawn from Kathleen Stewart, “An Occupied Place,” in Senses of Place, edited by Keith Basso and Steven Feld (Santa Fe, New Mexico: School of American Research Press, 1996). Her ethnography explores the coal mining villages of West Virginia. 13 Danièle Hervieu­Leger, “Space and Religion: New Approaches to Religious Spatiality in Modernity,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 26, no. 1 (2002): 99–105. 14 This is certainly true of Quebec, which was defined by the Maria Chapdelaine ideal noted in this volume’s introduction. On the US see Mary Jo Neitz, “Reflections on Religion and Place: Rural Churches and American Religion,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 44, no. 3 (2005): 243–7. 15 Complicated dynamics may colour caretakers’ interactions with populations étrangères (foreign populations), as they often call new set­ tlers whether or not they are also Québécois. Caretakers told me about confrontations with Europeans (Italians, Germans, French) who bought homes with a cross. Sometimes they agreed to let their neigh­ bours care for it, other times they refused. (It could result in desperate measures: one woman and her husband snuck onto a neighbour’s property at night and reset the cross’s cement foundation.) In areas near Montreal where Jewish families bought summer homes in the 1970s and 1980s, some owners preemptively sold the corner of their land with the cross to the parish for a symbolic fee, leaving the new owners unable to tear it down. Other times, vacationing souve­ nir­hunters removed decorations (e.g., the rooster on top of the cross). This vandalism was a product of (urban) elites’ promotion of Québécois folkloric art but also, ironically, condemned by them as they sought to protect the crosses as heritage objects. Most of the

292

16

17

18 19

20 21

22 23

24

25

Notes to pages 135–8 time, however, there are no conflicts. Caretakers either pick up a cross and move it to a new spot or abandon it and construct another. This generalization speaks to a distinction from ultra­conservatives in the US who hold conservative theological and social views (e.g. re­ garding female priests or abortion). Jacques Racine, “École Québécoise, modernité et religion,” in Modernité et religion au Québec, edited by Robert Mager and Serge Cantin (Ste­Foy, Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2010); Solange Lefebvre and Mireille Estivalèzes, Le Programme d’éthique et culture religieuse: De l’exigeante conciliation entre le soi, l’autre et le nous (Ste­Foy, Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2012). Diane Imbeault, Interview with Hillary Kaell, 30 June 2013. Cf. Kathryn M. Dudley, “The Problem of Community,” Culture and Agriculture 18, no. 2 (1996), 47. Simard, Interview with Hillary Kaell, 23 May 2014. I refer especially to anthropologists Mircea Eliade and Victor Turner. They differ from roadside crosses that mark the location of an acci­ dent. Even when wayside crosses commemorated an untimely death, builders often chose locations only proximate to the event, wherever was most visible from the road. Catherine Ann Collins and Alexandra Opie, “When Places Have Agency: Roadside Shrines as Traumascapes,” Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies 24, no.1 (2010), 107–18; Holly Everett, Roadside Crosses in Contemporary Memorial Culture (Denton, Texas: University of North Texas Press, 2002). Carpentier, Les Croix de Chemin, 74–5. John Urry, Sociology beyond Societies: Mobilities for the Twenty-first Century (London: Routledge, 2000); Michel Foucault, “Space, Knowledge, Power,” in The Foucault Reader, edited by Paul Rabinow (London: Penguin Books, 1984), 243. Gilles Routhier, “Governance of the Catholic Church: An Expression of the Distinct Society?” in The Churches and the Social Order in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Canada, edited by Micheal Gaubreau and Olivier Hubert (Montreal and Kingston: McGill­ Queen’s University Press, 2006), 300–1. It is not entirely clear why these restorations occurred. To some ex­ tent, I discuss the issue in Hillary Kaell, “Quebec’s Wayside Crosses and the Creation of Contemporary Devotionalism,” in The Long

Notes to pages 140–3

26 27 28

29 30

31 32

33

293

Shadow of Vatican II, edited by Lucas Van Rompay, Sam Miglarese, and David A. Morgan (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015), and Hillary Kaell, “Marking Memory: Heritage Work and Devotional Labour at Quebec’s Croix de Chemin,” in The Anthropology of Catholicism: A Companion Reader, edited by Maya Mayblin, Kristin Norget, and Valentina Napolitano (Berkeley: University of California Press, forthcoming). However, more work is needed, especially regarding the role of provincial heritage promotion programs. Over the course of my study, I inter­ viewed eighteen members of local historical societies, but my focus was on caretakers themselves. Diane Joly (“Des croix de chemin en quête de protecteurs,” Rabaska 6 (2008): 41–67) surveyed nine­ ty­eight societies across the province, however her interest was mainly in program implementation, rather than the religious beliefs of society members. Lynn Ross­Bryant, “Sacred Sites: Nature and Nation in the U.S. National Parks,” Religion and American Culture 15, no.1 (2005). Carpentier, Les Croix de Chemin, 72, 104–6, 386–7. Arnold Van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd, 1960), 20. Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion, translated by Willard R. Trask (San Diego: Harcourt, 1959), 26. Carpentier’s secondary source material is preserved in boxes E/05545 and E/05546, Fonds Jean Simard (F1081), Archives de folklore et d’ethnologie, Laval University. Carpentier, Les Croix de Chemin, 99. Hétérotopie from Foucault in Luc Noppen and Lucie K. Morisset, Les églises du Québec (Quebec: Presses de l’Université du Québec, 2005), 324–5. Also in Berthold and Dormaels, “Introduction,” in Patrimoine et sacralisation, edited by Berthold, Dormaels and Josée Laplace, 1­14 (Québec: Éditions Multi Mondes, 2009), 4. Ralph Côté, “125e de St­François­Xavier. L’historique des croix de chemin a suscité l’intérêt de nombreux citoyens,” L’Étincelle (2014). Belden C. Lane (“Giving Voice to Place: Three Models for Understanding American Sacred Space,” Religion and American Culture 11, no.1 (2001): 53–81) calls it a “phenomenological” ap­ proach to space. See also Casey, “How to Get from Space to Place,” 42. Kaell, “Marking Memory.”

294

Notes to pages 144–7

34 Jeanne Gauthier, “Questionnaires d’enquete: Dossiers” Fonds Jean Simard, E/05547. The second story is from my interviews in Rouyn­ Noranda. On aesthetics, Kaell, “Quebec’s Wayside Crosses.” 35 Robert Orsi, Thank You St Jude: Women’s Devotion to the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), passim. 36 These numbers from my survey of 686 crosses listed in Jean Simard and Jocelyne Milot, Les croix de chemin du Québec: Inventaire sélectif et trésor (Quebec: Ministère de la Culture et des Communications, 1994). Creators of the cross are listed as follows: men (65.2 per cent), women (2 per cent), couple (1.2 per cent), un­ known (26.8 per cent), society/parish/school (3.9 per cent), unclear from name (0.4 per cent), priest (0.4 per cent). Their interviews were conducted with: men (36.9 per cent), women (22.7 per cent), couple (2.3 per cent), unlisted (36.3 per cent), priests (1.3 per cent). “Unlisted” may include women too. 37 Maya Mayblin, Gender, Catholicism, and Morality: Virtuous Husbands, Powerful Wives (London: Palgrave, 2010), 98. 38 Lane, “Giving Voice to Place,” 54. Quote above in Casey, “How to Get from Space to Place,” 37. 39 On the schoolmistress see Carpentier, Les Croix de Chemin, 103. 40 While most cycles of prayers seem to peter out over a few years, some do continue for at least a decade. See for example local caretaker Isabelle Ethier (in 2006) quoted by Vanessa Oliver­Lloyd, Les croix de chemin au temps du bon Dieu: Un voyage au cœur de nos racines profondes (Montreal: Éditions du passage, 2007), 197. 41 Such May prayers spread throughout Europe, especially after the Immaculate Conception was declared dogma in 1854. Kurt Küppers, “What is the History of May Devotion?” Reprint and translation from Marienlexikon 4, no. 1 (no year): 244–6, accessed 1 August 2014. http://campus.udayton.edu/mary/questions/yq2/yq367.html 42 Carpentier, Les Croix de Chemin, 112–13. My estimate of today’s prayers is based on impressions formed by hearing (or hearing about) hundreds of prayers at the crosses. 43 Philippe Pothier, Interview with Hillary Kaell, 26 August 2013. 44 Alan Morinis, “Introduction,” in Sacred Journeys: The Anthropology of Pilgrimage, edited by Alan Morinis (Connecticut: Greenwood Publishing, 1992), 2, 4.

Notes to pages 147–53

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45 I am drawing on Brigit Meyer, “Mediation and Immediacy: Sensational Forms, Semiotic Ideologies and the Question of the Medium,” Social Anthropology 19, no. 1 (2011): 23–39 46 Maurice Merleau­Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1962), 214. 47 Ludger Lavoie, Interview with Hillary Kaell, 21 May 2014. 48 Blessings and Prayers, 29, 32. At the benedictions I have observed, each priest used variations of this prayer from the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops text, Catechism of the Catholic Church (Ottawa: Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops, 2004). This is the English version of an edition that one priest recommended to me. 49 For example, the celebrations in the village of Saint­Francois­Xavier­ de­Brompton (noted above) was recorded in Côté, “125e de St­François­Xavier.” 50 Horace Miner, St-Denis: A French-Canadian Parish (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1939), 52; Carpentier, Les Croix de Chemin, 99. 51 In anthropological studies of ritual, this is classic “deference” be­ haviour where actors follow “customary ways of doing” without needing to justify them through recourse to belief or intention. E.g., Rita Astuti and Maurice Bloch, “Are Ancestors Dead?” In A Companion to the Anthropology of Religion, edited by Janice Boddy and Michael Lambek (London: Wiley Blackwell, 2013). 52 Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, edited by Michael Holquist, (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981) 7. 53 Merleau­Ponty in Casey, “How to Get from Space to Place,” 22. 54 It is difficult to precisely translate her words: “C’est comme mettre Jésus d’accord avec le travail qui avait été fait. C’est mettre Jésus témoin de ce que nous faisons et de nos prières.” 55 For example, David Chidester and Edward T. Linenthal, American Sacred Space (Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1995). 56 Lucie Émond, Interview with Hillary Kaell, 15–16 July 2013. 57 Neitz, “Reflections on Religion and Place,” 245. 58 Quebec has no myth of the religious frontier equivalent to the US, with its migrating new religious movements (e.g. the Latter­day Saints or Methodist circuit riders). Popular understandings of Québécois reli­ gious history tend to downplay innovation in rural areas. There is

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Notes to pages 153–8 some focus on movement, however, specifically regarding colonization programs that settled Catholic parishes in the nineteenth century. Benoit Lacroix, La foi de ma mère (Montréal: Bellarmin, 1999), 14. Neitz, “Reflections on Religion and Place,” 245. The World Religions Museum (Musée des religions du monde) in Nicolet (Quebec) contains many Catholic artifacts once found in situ. Ruth Frankenberg, Living Spirit, Living Practice: Poetics, Politics, and Epistemology (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 2004); Neitz, “Reflections on Religion and Place,” 246.

Chapter Six 1 Père Claude Grou, rector of Oratoire Saint­Joseph, interview with Emma Anderson, 19 May 2015. 2 For more on religion in contemporary Quebec, see Leslie Woodcock Tentler, The Church Confronts Modernity: Catholicism since 1950 in the United States, Ireland, and Quebec (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2007), 4–7, 21–61, 239–67, Gregory Baum, Truth and Relevance: Catholic Theology in French Canada since the Quiet Revolution (Montreal: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2014), 12–19, 152–65, and Robert Mager and Serge Cantin, Modernité et religion au Québec: Où en sommes-nous? (Ste­Foy, Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2010), 1–7, 55–66, 79–128. 3 For more analysis of these dynamics, see Baum, Truth and Relevance, 19, 189–90, 206–8; Sami Aoun, “La Nationalité québécoise et l’Is­ lam,” La nation sans la religion?: Le défi des ancrages au Québec, ed­ ited by Louis­André Richard (Saint­Foy: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2009); Louis Bathazar, “La nationalité québécoise et l’Église catholique,” in La Nation sans la Religion? Le défi des ancrages au Québec, edited by Louis­André Richard (Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2009), 131–53; Adelman and Anctil, Religion, Culture, and the State, 100–16; Meena Sharify­Funk and Elysia Guzik in this volume. 4 Text of a “Conseil du patrimoine religieux du Québec” sign. 5 Etienne Catta, Le Frère André et l’Oratoire Saint-Joseph du MontRoyal (Montreal: Fides, 1964), 186–7. For more on Bissonnette’s life, see also Françoise Deroy­Pineau, L’étrange destin d’Alfred Bessette dit Frère André (Québec: Fides, 2004).

Notes to pages 159–62

297

6 Grou interview. 7 Denise Robillard, Les Merveilles de l’Oratoire: l’Oratoire Saint-Joseph du Mont-Royal, 1904-2004 (Quebec: Edition Fides, 2005). 8 Grou interview. Interview with David Bureau, archivist at Oratoire Saint­Joseph, 20 May 2015. 9 Catta, Le Frère André, 911–36. 10 Ibid., “The Poor, Obedient, Humble Servant of God,” 936–8. 11 Bureau interview, Grou interview. 12 Robillard, Les Merveilles, 35–58, Grou interview. 13 Grou interview. 14 La Presse, 5 July 1973, “Voul. Remplacer cœur Frère André. Acc. n’importe quoi. Gens serieus s’abst.,” cbc Radio, Quebec Now, “Missing Heart Inspires Art,” 5 August 1973, accessed 20 October 2016. http://www.cbc.ca/archives/entry/missing­heart­inspires­art. Decades later, the heart and its theft continues to inspire creativity. It features heavily in Michel Basilière’s novel Black Bird, (Toronto: Knopf, 2003) and Matthew Quick’s The Good Luck of Right Now (New York, HarperCollins, 2014). The Canadian rock band Blue Rodeo recorded “Brother André’s Heart” in 1997, five years after the debut of Linda Griffith’s comedic stage play of the same name. 15 The shrine has existed since at least 1658. Only Our Lady of Guadalupe, founded in 1532 in Mexico City, is older. See Mary Corley Dunn, Sainte-Anne-du-Petit-Cap: The Making of an Early Modern Shrine. PhD diss. (Harvard University, 2008), 195; Sherry Angela Smith, Encountering Anne: Journeys to Sainte-Anne-deBeaupré (PhD diss., McMaster University, 2011), 21–5; William G. Carbray, Historical Album of Sainte Anne de Beaupré (Quebec: Angers & Trudel, 1935), 27–32. 16 Virginia Nixon, Mary’s Mother: Saint Anne in Late Medieval Europe (University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004); Kathleen Ashley and Pamela Sheingorn, Interpreting Cultural Symbols: Saint Anne in Late Medieval Society (Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1990). 17 Dunn, Sainte-Anne, 133, Smith, Encountering Anne, 171–5, Charlene Villeseñor Black, “St Anne Imagery and Maternal Archetypes in Spain and Mexico,” Colonial Saints: Discovering the Holy in the Americas, 1500–1800, edited by Allan Greer and Jodi Bilinkoff, 3–29 (New York: Routledge, 2003); David Williams, Saints Alive: Word, Image,

298

18 19

20 21

22 23 24

25

26 27

Notes to pages 162–7 and Enactment in the Lives of the Saints (Montreal: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2010), 47–111. Père Guy Desrochers of Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré, interview with Emma Anderson, 15 May 2015. Charlene Villeseñor Black, Creating the Cult of Saint Joseph: Art and Gender in the Spanish Empire (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2006). Dunn, Sainte-Anne, 157. Ibid., 191–2. See also Jennifer Reid, Finding Kluskap: A Journey into Mi’kmaw Myth (University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2013). Eugène Lefebvre, Le Peuple Pèlerin de Sainte Anne (Quebec: Sainte­ Anne­de­Beaupré, 1975), 85, 88. Émond, La Neuvaine. Williams, Saints Alive, 88–94 and Baum, Truth and Relevance, 164 discuss this film. Nive Voisine, “Luc Désilets et la fondation du centre de pèlerinage de Notre­Dame­du­Cap,” in Les Pèlerinages au Québec, edited by Pierre Boglioni and Benoit Lacroix (Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1981). Paul Arsenault, L’histoire de Notre-Dame du Cap (Cap­de­la­ Madeleine, QC: Editions Notre­Dame du Cap, 1988). Désilets’ tomb, located off­site, is another important stop for visitors. Émission ‘Second Regard,’ in Le tourisme religieux au Saguenay (Montreal: Société Radio­Canada, 2009). Earlier studies of pilgrimage in Quebec include Pierre Boglioni and Benoit Lacroix, Les Pèlerinages au Québec (Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1981); Martin Geoffroy and Jean­Guy Vaillancourt, “The New Pilgrimage – Return to Tradition or Adaptation to Modernity: The Case of Saint Joseph’s Oratory, Montreal,” in On the Road to Being There: Studies in Pilgrimage and Tourism in Late Modernity, edited by William H. Swantos, Jr (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 255–75; Rinchede, “Catholic Pilgrimage Centres in Quebec, Canada,” 169–92, Suzanne Boutin, “Le chemin des sanctu­ aires: un phénomène entre tradition et modernité,” Études d’histoire religieuse, vol. 74 (2008), 29–43; and Suzanne Boutin, Modernité avancée et quêtes de mieux-être dans trois lieux de pèlerinage québécois: Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré, Notre-Dame-du-Cap et V Oratoire Saint-Joseph (PhD. diss., Université Laval, 2005). Other resources

Notes to pages 168–9

28

29

30

31 32

33

34

35 36 37

38 39

299

include cogem Marketing’s Étude sur la provenance et le profil de la clientèle de l’Oratoire Saint­Joseph (Québec, 2004). My thanks to David Bureau, osj Archivist, for allowing me access to this resource. Léger Marketing, Tourisme religieux et spirituel: Première édition de l’étude de caractérisation des clientèles du tourisme religieux et spirituel au Québec (Montréal, 2012). My heartfelt thanks to Père Guy Desrochers of Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré for giving me this invaluable resource. Though the Basilica­Cathedral of Notre Dame in Quebec City has since joined the shrine consortium, it is not considered here as it did not participate in the groundbreaking 2011 Leger survey. Working professionals, aged thirty­five to fifty­four were, at 35 per cent, the second most numerous group, with children and youth at only 13 per cent (ibid., 23. But because the study was conducted be­ tween May and Oct 2011, it didn’t include many school groups, which could skew the results). cogem’s figures for osj (Étude, 9) are comparable. Only ndc attracts significantly more women (63 per cent) than men (37 per cent) (Léger, Tourisme Religieux, 23, 39). Of the remainder, 14 per cent came from other Canadian provinces, 10 per cent from the US, and 10 per cent from other countries (10 per cent) (ibid., 14). The shrines also attracted 3 per cent Hindus, 2 per cent Protestants, 2 per cent nonspecified Christians, 1 per cent Orthodox Christians, 1 per cent Buddhists, 1 per cent Muslims, 1 per cent Sikhs, and 1 per cent “other religion” (ibid., 63). Forty­three per cent of visitors hold a university degree, 24 per cent have a college education, and 32 per cent completed high school (ibid, 24). Ibid., 64. Ibid., 63. sab played a mediating role, with less diversity than osj but considerably more than esa or ndc (ibid, 63–4). Ibid., 23, 44. cogem presents conflicting data, showing French as the most common language of the Oratoire, with English in second place with 30 per cent (Étude, 30). Léger, Tourisme Religieux, 43. Ibid., 10, 19. osj reported 54 per cent visiteurs centres (vcs) and 46 per cent visiteurs non-centrés (vncs, ibid., 23, 35). esa, sab, and ndc

300

40 41 42 43 44

45

46 47 48 49 50

51 52

Notes to pages 169–73 reported 80 per cent, 81 per cent, and 78 per cent of vcs and 20 per cent, 19 per cent, and 22 per cent of VNCs respectively (ibid., 35). Ibid., 26, 104. Ibid., 26, 109. Ibid., 104. Fifty­three per cent of Québécois visitors expressed spiritual motiva­ tions, 8 per cent more than the average (ibid, 110). Forty­two per cent of non­Québécois Canadians expressed interest in the sites’ historical or aesthetic aspects, as did 43 per cent of American visitors and 69 per cent of international tourists (ibid., 110). Léger allowed respondents to select more than one motivation for their visit, which is why the total percentages here exceed 100 per cent (ibid., 20). Ibid., 11, 24. The average cellule consisted of 2.1 people (ibid., 24). cogem’s find­ ings about visitor preferences at osj (Étude, 1) are similar. Ibid., 26, 116. An estimated 61 per cent of visitors to osj visit Frère André’s heart (cogem, Étude, 14). Of course, many contradictory motivations can be found within an individual cellule. Fifteen per cent of Léger respondents stated that they were present simply to accompany family members (ibid., 109). For more on family dynamics at Catholic shrines in general, see Simon Coleman, “Putting It All Together Again: Pilgrimage, Healing, and Incarnation at Walsingham,” in Pilgrimage and Healing, edited by Jill Dubish and Michael Winkelman (Tucson, az: University of Arizona Press, 2005), 91–109. At sab, the figure was 54 per cent, 9 per cent above average (Léger, Tourisme Religieux, 111). Desrochers and Grou interviews. For more on letter writing at sab, see Anne Doran­Jacques, “L’Utilisation du Quantitatif dans l’analyse de la prière à Sainte­Anne­de­Beaupré,” in Les Pèlerinages au Québec, edited by Pierre Boglioni and Benoît Lacroix (Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1981), 123–37. For osj letters specifically, see Jean­ Marc Charron, “Nomadisme urbain et espace sacré: profil religieux des pèlerins de l’Oratoire Saint­Joseph­du­Mont­Royal,” in Cahiers de l’Oratoire Saint-Joseph, vol. 1, L’Oratoire et sa mission (1991), 51–66.

Notes to pages 173–80

301

53 Vows are an important feature of popular lay Catholic spirituality worldwide. See Lena Gemzöe, “The Feminization of Healing in Pilgrimage to Fátima,” in Pilgrimage and Healing, edited by Jill Dubish and Michael Winkelman (Tucson, Arizona: University of Arizona Press, 2005), 30–3. 54 Desrochers interview 55 Pères Grou and Desrochers (interviews) both noted that mass attendance at shrines is typically higher than at parish churches. Of the four shrines, esa boasted the highest rate of mass attendance at 39 per cent (Léger, Tourisme Religieux, 109). 56 For more on post­revolution religious individualism in Quebec, see André Charron, “L’Oratoire Saint­Joseph, espace et fonction de l’église de la ville,” in Cahiers de l’Oratoire Saint-Joseph, Vol. 1, L’Oratoire et sa mission (Montreal: Oratoire Saint­Joseph du Mont­ Royal, 1996), 9–49; and Lemieux, “Le Catholicisme québécois: Une question de culture” and Deirdre Meintel in this volume. 57 John Eade and Michael J. Sallnow, Contesting the Sacred: The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage (London: Routledge, 1991). 58 Lefebvre, Le Peuple Pèlerin, 96, 117–21; Smith, Encountering Anne, 68–77, 241–8. 59 Desrochers interview. 60 Serge Gagnon and René Hardy, L’Église et le village au Québec (Ottawa: Leméac, 1979), 86–92. 61 Pierre Maheu, “Le Dieu canadien­français contra l’homme Québécois,” in L’Incroyance au Québec: Approches phénoménologiques, théologiques et pastorale (Montreal: Fides, 1973). 62 For discussion of the tourist/pilgrimage distinction (or lack thereof), see Avril Maddrell et al., Christian Pilgrimage, Landscape and Heritage: Journeying to the Sacred (New York: Routledge, 2015), 1–19; Eade and Sallnow, Contesting the Sacred, 1–27; and Swantos, Jr, On the Road. 63 Grou interview. 64 Grou’s arguments are similar to those of the “personalist” school. See Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007); Martin E. Meunier and Jean­Pierre Warren, Sortir de la “Grande noirceur”: L’horizon personnaliste de la Révolution Tranquille (Sillery: Éditions du Septentrion, 2002); and Baum, Truth and Relevance, 156–65, 175–77.

302

Notes to pages 180–6

65 Grou interview. 66 Ibid. 67 These types of intimate pastoral encounters were in fact advocated by the 1990 Larochelle Report commissioned by the Catholic Church in Quebec (see Baum, Truth and Relevance, 158–61). 68 Grou interview. 69 Grou interview. 70 Normally, of course, shrine churches are exparoissial: special place of pilgrimage outside the parish system. For discussion of the Oratoire’s role in Montreal, see Charron, “L’Oratoire Saint­Joseph,” 9–49. For more on the religious behaviour of Christian immigrants to Montreal, but in the Protestant context, see Géraldine Mossière’s chapter in this volume. 71 Charron, “L’Oratoire Saint­Joseph,” 9–49. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid. 74 Grou interview. 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid. 77 osj is not unique in attracting would­be Hindu worshippers: the same phenomenon is reported at sab (Desrochers interview) and at the Martyrs’ Shrine in Midland, Ontario (see Emma Anderson, The Death and Afterlife of the North American Martyrs, Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2013). 78 Grou interview. 79 Ibid. 80 At esa and ndc the situation is reversed: there, liberal visitors often chide clergy for their dated, fear­filled homilies (Léger, Annexe: Commentaires et suggestions, 16, 22). 81 Desrochers interview.

C h a p t e r S e ve n 1 See Lepage, “An Artist’s View on Identity & Belonging,” in which the Quebec­born playwright and stage director describes how he discov­ ered “that I actually had a lot of Anglo blood within me” after receiv­ ing a family tree as a fiftieth birthday gift.

Notes to pages 187–9

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2 See Angus Reid Global, “Quebecers, Canadians split on proposed Charter of Values,” 2013; Caroline Plante, “Quebec needs Values Charter: poll.” Global News, 21 January 2015. http://globalnews.ca/ news/1785417/quebec­needs­values­charter­poll/. 3 The authors drew upon interview transcripts from fieldwork conduct­ ed by Meena Sharify­Funk in 2009 and supplemented excerpts with secondary research on peer­reviewed scholarly publications and main­ stream media sources regarding the historical and political contexts underlying contemporary responses to women’s head coverings in Quebec. These complementary data allowed the authors to ground their analysis of broader institutional implications (i.e. legislation con­ cerning material religious expression) in the lived experiences of Muslim women. 4 Jennifer A. Selby, “Un/veiling Women’s Bodies: Secularism and Sexuality in Full­face Veil Prohibitions in France and Québec,” Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses 43, no. 3 (2014). Given the focus of this chapter on the Quebec situation, detailed comparisons with other Canadian provincial or international contexts have not been included. For insights into the legal and political controversies surrounding Muslim women’s head coverings in Europe, see Valérie Amiraux, “The “Illegal Covering” Saga: What’s Next? Sociological Perspectives.” Social Identities 19, no. 6 (2013). For a list of countries with restric­ tions to and bans on Muslim women’s veiling, see Human Rights Without Frontiers report “Restrictions to and Ban on Full Veil, Hijab, Niqab – Country Examples” (2015), available at: http://ccmw.com/ restrictions­to­ban­on­full­veil­hijab­niqab­country­examples/. 5 Stephen Winter, “Cultural Politics Pathology: The Charter of Québec Values,” Politics, Groups, and Identities 2, no. 4 (2014), 683. 6 David R. Cameron and Jacqueline D. Kirkorian, “Recognizing Québec in the Constitution of Canada: Using the Bilateral Constitutional Amendment Process.” University of Toronto Quarterly 58, no. 4 (2008): 389–420. 7 Lawrence Anderson, “Federalism and Secessionism: Institutional Influences on Nationalist Politics in Quebec,” Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 13:2, 2007. 8 Dale Thomson, “Language, Identity, and the Nationalist Impulse: Québec,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 538, no.3 (1995), 76.

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Notes to pages 189–90

9 Quebec’s Quiet Revolution needs to be understood within larger in­ ternational contexts, including friction in the 1960s between manifes­ tations of laïcité in France and Quebec and the Islamic Revival that witnessed women personally choosing to wear hijab or niqab (and subsequently its enforcement in certain countries). 10 David Koussens, “Neutrality of the State and Regulation of Religious Symbols in Schools in Québec and France,” Social Compass 56, no.2 (2009), 207. 11 Meena Sharify­Funk, “Governing the Face Veil: Québec’s Bill 94 and the Transnational Politics of Women’s Identity,” International Journal of Canadian Studies 43 (2011). It is worth noting the work of schol­ ars such as Caroline Desbiens (“‘Women with no femininity’: Gender, race and nation­building in the James Bay Project.” Political Geography 23, no. 3 (2004): 347–66) and Chappell (2000), who cri­ tique patriarchal attitudes and systems of representation embedded in democratic state institutions and legislation. 12 Open secularism: Alternative to strict secularism, presented by Bouchard­Taylor Report. This model gives the state the responsibility to protect freedoms of religion and conscience, without imposing a re­ ligious framework. 13 On 8 February 2007, former premier Jean Charest appointed a Consultation Commission on Accommodation Practices Related to Cultural Differences (later known as the Bouchard­Taylor Commission), headed by two prominent academics, sociologist Gerard Bouchard and philosopher Charles Taylor. This Commission conducted a yearlong public inquiry into the scope and limits of “rea­ sonable accommodation” and drafted recommendations for the pro­ vincial government which would become the commission’s final report. 14 Roshan A Jahangeer, Towards an Inclusive Secularism and a Transformative Model of Community Engagement in Québec (the Tessellate Institute, 2014). 15 Koussens, “Neutrality of the State and Regulation of Religious Symbols.” 16 Ibid, 205. 17 Olivia Ward, “Paris attack exposes old colonial wounds.” Toronto Star, accessed 7 January 2015. http://www.thestar.com/news/ world/2015/01/07/paris_attack_exposes_old_colonial_ wounds.html

Notes to pages 190–2

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18 Ibid. 19 Ibid. 20 Daniel Salée, “The Quebec State and the Management of Ethnocultural Diversity: Perspectives on an Ambiguous Record,” in Belonging? Diversity, Recognition and Shared Citizenship in Canada, edited by Keith Banting, Thomas J. Courchene, and F. Leslie Seidle (Montreal: The Institute for Research on Public Policy, 2007), 108. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid., 108–9. 23 Bill 60, the proposed Quebec Charter of Values introduced by Bernard Drainville in May 2013, called to eliminate visible religious symbols from the public sector. 24 Sheila McDonough, “The Muslims of Canada,” in The South Asian Religious Diaspora in Britain, Canada, and the United States, edited by Harold Coward, John R. Hinnelis, and Raymond Brady Williams (Albany, New York: State University of New York Press, 2000). 25 Statistics Canada, 2001 Census: Analysis Series: Religions in Canada. http://www12.statcan.ca/access_acces/archive.action­eng.cfm?/english/ census01/products/analytic/companion/rel/pdf/96F0030XIE2001015. pdf 26 Marie McAndrew, “The Muslim Community and Education in Québec: Controversies and Mutual Adaptation,” International Migration & Integration 11, no.1 (2010): 42–3. 27 Meena Sharify­Funk, “Muslims and the Politics of ‘Reasonable Accommodation’: Analyzing the Bouchard­Taylor Report and its Impact on the Canadian Province of Québec,” Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 30, no. 4 (2010). 28 McAndrew, “The Muslim Community and Education in Québec,” 54. 29 The official federal policy of multiculturalism established under Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau was reaffirmed and granted statutory basis in the Canadian Multiculturalism Act, 1988. 30 Deirdre Meintel and Géraldine Mossière, “In the Wake of the Quiet Revolution: From Secularization to Religious Cosmopolitanism,” Anthropologica 55, no.1 (2013), 61. 31 Will Kymlicka, “Ethnocultural Diversity in a Liberal State,” Making Sense of the Canadian Model(s),” in Belonging? Diversity, Recognition and Shared Citizenship in Canada, edited by Keith

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41 42 43 44 45 46

47 48 49

Notes to pages 192–5 Banting, Thomas J. Courchene, and F. Leslie Seidle (Montreal: The Institute for Research on Public Policy, 2007), 43–4. Ibid. Guillaume Rousseau and James McDonald, “Legislating Secularism in Québec,” Inroads 35 (2014), 94. Fiona Barker, “Learning to be a Majority: Negotiating Immigration, Integration and National Membership in Québec,” Political Science 62, no.1 (2010), 26. Salée, “The Quebec State and the Management of Ethnocultural Diversity,” 108. Barker, “Learning to be a Majority.” Rodney Stark and Laurence R. Iannaccone, “Response to Lechner: Recent Religious Declines in Québec, Poland, and the Netherlands: A Theory Vindicated,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 35, no.3 (1996), 267. Jake Flanagin, “The Dangerous Logic of Québec’s ‘Charter of Values’,” The Atlantic, accessed 12 January 2014. http://www.theat­ lantic.com/international/archive/2014/01/the­dangerous­logic­of­Qué­ becs­charter­of values/283272/ Bob Chodos, “Secularism in Québec,” Inroads 35 (2014): 78. Emma, in this volume, also draws a connection between the historical residue of the Quiet Revolution and contemporary discomfort about Muslim women’s veiling. Ibid.; Jean Lesage et al., “Second Reading of Bill 60 proposes the cre­ ation of a Ministry of Education,” in Proceedings of the Legislative Assembly of Québec (Québec: The Assembly, 1964). Ibid. Ibid. Gary Caldwell, “Proulx Report and the Role of the State in Québec Schools,” Inroads: A Journal of Opinion 9 (2000): 212–21. Thomson, “Language, Identity, and the Nationalist Impulse,” 74. Winter, “Cultural Politics Pathology,” 685–6. Commission Royale d’enquête sur l’enseignement dans la Province de Québec, Rapport Parent: Rapport de la Commission Royale d’enquête sur l’enseignement dans la Province de Québec (1963), 89, 93. McAndrew, “The Muslim Community and Education in Québec,” 41. Ibid., 45. Ibid., 45–6.

Notes to pages 195–200

307

50 Ibid. 51 Koussens, “Neutrality of the State and Regulation of Religious Symbols,” 206. 52 McAndrew, “The Muslim Community and Education in Québec,” 47. 53 Paul Clarke, “Religion, Public Education and the Charter,” McGill Journal of Education 40, no. 3 (2005): 351–81, 375. 54 Elizabeth Campos and Jean­Guy Vaillancourt, “The Regulation of Religious Diversity in Quebec,” Quebec Studies 52, no.1 (2011): 111–22. 55 Lynda Clarke, Women in Niqab Speak (Gananoque, on: Canadian Council of Muslim Women, 2013); Benjamin Shingler and Melanie Marquis, “Woman says she was accosted in mall over her Islamic veil as Liberals threaten election over Quebec charter.” National Post, 16 September 2013. 56 Lucille Otero and David Burgess, “Freedom of Conscience and Religion in Québec Schools,” Education & Law Journal 21, no. 1 (2011), 65. 57 Gouvernement du Québec, Ethics and Religious Culture Program, 2015; Otero and Burgess, “Freedom of Conscience and Religion in Québec Schools,” 66. 58 McAndrew, “The Muslim Community and Education in Québec,” 51–2. 59 Sharify­Funk, “Muslims and the Politics of ‘Reasonable Accommodation’,” 543. 60 National Assembly of Quebec, “Bill 60: Charter affirming the values of State secularism and religious neutrality and of equality between women and men, and providing a framework for accommodation re­ quests” (Sitting held November 7, 2013), 2. 61 Anver Emon, “NO to Quebec Provincial Bill 94,” Las Perlas del Mar, 5 May 2010. 62 Rene Bruemmer and Kevin Dougherty, “Herouxville: Cause celebre,” The Montreal Gazette, 2 February 2007. 63 Chantel Hébert, “Tories, Bloc Risk Inflaming Anti­Muslim Bias,” Toronto Star, 28 February 2015, A6. 64 National Assembly of Quebec, “Bill 94: An Act to Establish Guidelines Governing Accommodation Requests within Administration and Certain Institutions” (Sitting held 24 March 2010), 2. Accessd 20 October 2016. http://www.assnat.qc.ca/en/ travaux­parlementaires/projets­loi/projets­loi­39­1.html.

308 65 66 67 68 69

70

71 72 73 74 75 76 77

Notes to pages 200–15 Ibid., 4. Ibid., 5. National Assembly of Quebec, “Bill 60,” 1. Lysiane Gagnon, “Quebec Reopens a Can of Worms,” The Globe and Mail, 28 January 2015, A13. J.P. Tasker, “Stephen Harper ‘dumb’ to say niqab is anti­women, Charles Taylor says.” cbc News, accessed 27 March 2015. http:// www.cbc.ca/news/politics/stephen­harper­dumb­to­say­niqab­is­anti­ women ­charles­taylor­says­1.3013427. Meena Sharify­Funk conducted interviews and online communication in Summer 2009 with representatives from Montreal­based Muslim organizations (i.e., Canadian Council of Muslim Women [ccmw], Canadian Muslim Forum [cmf], Muslim Presence Montreal [mpm], Muslim Women of Quebec [mwq]) to help assess the impact of the Bouchard­Taylor Commission and its final report. For analyses of key Québécois feminist organizations’ positions on and critiques of the commission’s final report, see Solange Lefebvre and Laurie G. Beaman “Protecting gender relations: The Bouchard­Taylor Commission and the equality of women,” Canadian Journal for Social Research/ Revue Canadienne de Recherche Sociale 2, no. 1 (2012), which focuses on Le Conseil du statut de la femme (csf) and Fédération des femmes du Québec (ffq). Anonymous member of Muslim Women of Quebec, email correspon­ dence with Meena Sharify­Funk, 23 July 2009. Leila Bedeir, interview with Meena Sharify­Funk, 29 July 2009. Samaa Elibyari, interview with Meena Sharify­Funk, 8 July 2009. Mohamed Kamel, interview with Meena Sharify­Funk, 7 July 2009. Institut Simone de Beauvoir, Bill 60: A Feminist Response, A Feminist Response, 2013, 1. Ibid., 3. Lazreg, in Institut Simone de Beauvoir, Bill 60: A Feminist Response, 6.

C ha p t e r E i g h t 1 The names of the church and individual members are pseudonyms. 2 “Québécois pure laine,” in local parlance, refers to those of French­ descended, Catholic background who have been established in Quebec for many generations.

Notes to pages 215–17

309

3 Team members include Claude Gélinas, Josiane Le Gall, Géraldine Mossière, François Gauthier, Marie­Nathalie Le Blanc (2006–10), and Khadiyatoulah Fall (2010–14). Deirdre Meintel directs the project. It has been funded by the Fonds Québécois de la Recherche sur la Société et la Culture (fqrsc) and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (sshrc). 4 France: Hervieu­Léger, Le pèlerin et le converti. United States: Merdeith B. McGuire, Lived Religion: Faith and Practice in Everyday Life (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008). United Kingdom: Paul Heelas and Linda Woodhead, The Spiritual Revolution: Why Religion is Giving Way to Spirituality (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005); Italy: Giuseppe Giordan, “The Body Between Religion and Spirituality,” Social Compass 56, no. 2 (2009): 226–36. Switzerland: Ronald J. Campiche, Cultures jeunes et religions en Europe (Paris: Cerf, 1997). 5 McGuire, Lived Religion. 6 Deirdre Meintel and Géraldine Mossière, “Reflections on Healing Rituals, Practices and Discourse: in Contemporary Religious Groups,” Éthnologies 33, no.1 (2011): 19–32. 7 Baptisms are not done at the sch though such a ritual exists in spiri­ tualist tradition. According to Michel, nearly everyone frequenting sch is already baptized (Catholic). 8 Swedenborgianism, whose key figure was the Swedish philosopher and mystic Emanuel Swedenborg (1688–1772) still exists as a reli­ gion. Like spiritualism it emphasizes the eternal life of the human spirit and the validity of all religious faiths. For its tenets see the site of the Swedenborgian Church of North America: http://www.sweden­ borg.org/Beliefs.aspx. New England transcendentalism was a philo­ sophical and literary movement active in the first few decades of the nineteenth century; leading figures included Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. James McClenon, “Transcendentalism,” in Encyclopedia of Religion and Society, edited by William H. Swatos and Peter Kvisto (Walnut Creek, ca: AltaMira Press, 1998). 9 Marion Aubrée et François Laplantive, La table, le livre et les esprits (Paris: Éditions J.C. Lattès, 1990). 10 Rodney Stark and William Sins Bainbridge, Religion, Deviance and Social Control (New York: Routledge, 1996), 104. 11 Geoffrey K. Nelson, Cults, New Religions and Religious Creativity (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1987), 139.

310

Notes to pages 217–22

12 Nelson, Cults, New Religions and Religious Creativity, 55–7; see also Colin Campbell, “Cult,” in Encyclopedia of Religion and Society, ed­ ited by William H. Swatos and Peter Kvisto (Walnut Creek, ca: AltaMira Press, 1998) 122–3. 13 Roy Wallis, The Road to Total Freedom: A Sociological Analysis of Scientology (New York: Columbia University, 1997), 14. 14 Paul­André Linteau et al., Histoire du Québec contemporain, Tome II: Le Québec depuis 1930 (Montreal: Éditions Boréal, 1989), 336; Bibby, “La religion à la Carte au Québec: Une analyse de tendances.” Sociologie et sociétés 22, no. 2 (1990): 133–44. 15 Linteau et al., Histoire du Québec contemporain. 16 While some newcomers to the religion give Buddhism as their reli­ gious identity (Frédéric Castel, “Convertis québécois et unions interre­ ligieuses,” Annuaire du Québec 2006 (Montréal: Fides, 2005), 222–8) most we met during the team’s research did not consider themselves “converted.” 17 Deirdre Meintel, “La stabilité dans le flou: parcours religieux et iden­ tités de spiritualists,” Anthropologie et societies 27, no.1 (2003): 35– 64; and Deirdre Meintel, “When There is No Conversion: Spiritualists and Personal Religious Change,” Anthropologica 49, no.1 (2007): 149–62. 18 For further details about this congregation see Meintel, “La stabilité dans le flou,” 35–64; and Meintel, “When There is No Conversion,” 149–162. 19 For more on the participatory aspect of this research see: Deirdre Meintel, “Apprendre et désapprendre: quand la médiumnité croise l’anthropologie,” Anthropologie et Sociétés 35, no.3 (2011): 89–106. 20 Thus far, observations have been carried out on a total of 232 groups; of these, sixty­five have been the object of extended ethnographic study (usually for six months or more); sixteen others, all outside Montreal, have been studied over several months. In the first phase of the project (2006–10) most of the data was gathered in the Montreal area. Since then studies have been carried out in various other regions of Quebec, mainly in the areas of St­Jerome, Chicoutimi, Sherbrooke, and Rawdon. 21 For example, Unni Wikan, “Toward an Experience­Near Anthropology,” Cultural Anthropology 6, no. 3 (1991); McGuire, Lived Religion; Thomas Csordas, Language, Charisma, & Creativity: Ritual

Notes to pages 223–6

22

23 24

25

26 27

311

Life in the Catholic Charismatic Renewal (New York: Palgrave, 2001); Robert Desjarlais, Body and Emotion: the Aesthetics of Illness and Healing in the Nepal Himalayas (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992); Jean­Guy Goulet, “Dreams and Visions in Indigenous Lifeworlds: An Experiential Approach,” Canadian Journal of Native Studies 13, no. 2 (1993): 171–98; Jean­Guy Goulet, Ways of Knowing: Experience, Knowledge, and Power Among the Dene Tha (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1998); Edith Turner, “A Visible Spirit Form in Zambia,” in Being Changed by Cross-Cultural Encounters; the Anthropology of Extraordinary Experience, edited by Jean­Guy Goulet and David E. Young (Peterborough: Broadview Press, 1994); Edith Turner, The Hands Feel It: Healing and Spirit Presence Among a Northern Alaskan People (DeKalb, Illinois: Northern Illinois University Press, 1996); Jill Dubisch, “Body, Self and Cosmos in ‘New Age’,” in Corporeal Inscriptions: Representations of the Body in Cultural and Literary Texts and Practices, edited by Edyta Lorek­ Jezinska and Katarzina Wieckowska (Torun: Nicholas Copernicus University Press, 2005), 221–35; Jill Dubisch, “Challenging the Boundaries of Experience, Performance, and Consciousness: Edith Turner’s Contributions to the Turnerian Project,” in Victor Turner and Contemporary Cultural Performance, edited by Graham St John (New York: Berghahn Books, 2008), 324–35. Deirdre Meintel and Géraldine Mossière, “Diversité religieuse au Québec, visible et invisible,” Bulletin de veille stratégique du Ministère de l’Immigration et des Communautés culturelles 10, no. 3 (2013): 4–6. Robert C. Fuller, Spiritual but not Religious (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001). Deirdre Meintel, “Apprendre et désapprendre: quand la médiumnité croise l’anthropologie,” Anthropologie et Sociétés 35, no.3 (2011): 89–106. Raymond Lemieux et al., “De la modernité des croyances: continuités et ruptures dans l’imaginaire religieux,” Archives de sciences sociales des religions, 81 (1993), 96. Thomas Csordas, Body/Meaning/Healing (New York: Palgrave, 2002), 3. Deirdre Meintel, “Les croyances et le croire chez des spiritualists,” Théologiques 13, no.1 (2005): 129–56; Deirdre Meintel, “Ritual

312

28

29 30 31 32 33

34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41

42

43

Notes to pages 227–32 Creativity: Why and What For? Examples from Quebec,” Journal of Ritual Studies 28, no. 2 (2013): 77–90. Susan Boutin, “Le pèlerinage: forme alternative de recours thérapeu­ tique dans le Québec modern.” Counseling et spiritualité 27, no.1 (2008), 151–65. This discourse also frames how the Québécois de­ scribe conversion to Islam, as noted in GéraldineMossière, “Devenir musulmane pour discipliner le corps et transformer l’esprit: l’hermé­ neutique du soi comme voie de guérison,” Ethnologies 33, no. 1 (2011): 117–42. Meredith B. McGuire, “Religion and Healing the Mind/Body/Self,” Social Compass 43 (1996): 101–16; McGuire, Lived Religion. Thomas Csordas, The Sacred Self: A Cultural Phenomenology of Charismatic Healing (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). Aubrée et Laplantive, La table, le livre et les esprits. André Corten, Le pentecôtisme au Brési: émotion du pauvre et romantisme théologique (Paris: Karthala, 1995). Rosemary Roberts,“‘Healing My Body, Healing the Land’: Healing as Sociopolitical Activism in Reclaiming Witchcraft,” Ethnologies 33, no. 1 (2011): 75–95. Bellah et al., Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life (New York: Harper and Row, 1985). Ibid., 222, 235. Charles Taylor, Varieties of Religious Experience Today: William James Revisited (Cambridge Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2002). Taylor, Varieties of Religious Experience Today, 113. Ibid. Taylor, Varieties of Religious Experience Today, 116. McGuire, Lived Religion, 154. McGuire describes “Doreen’s self­absorbed pattern of choosing and changing looks and lifestyles, sources of insights and inspiration, ca­ reers and partners.” See McGuire, Lived Religion, 157. William H. Swatos and Loftur Reimar Gissurarson, Icelandic Spiritualism: Mediumship and Modernity in Iceland (New Brunswick, nj and London: Transaction Publishers, 1997). Geoffrey K. Nelson, Spiritualism and Society (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1969).

Notes to pages 232–7

313

44 Charles F. Emmons, “On Becoming a Spirit Medium in a Rational Society,” Anthropology of Consciousness 12, no.1 (2001), 71–82. 45 Bellah et al., Habits of the Heart.

C ha p t e r N i n e 1 Preston Jones, “Quebec After Catholicism,” First Things, June 1999, accessed 12 March 2015. http:// www.firstthings.com/article/ 1999/06/quebec­after­catholicism. 2 Simon Lewsen, “Quebec Is Not So Secular,” Hazlitt, 16 September 2013, accessed 28 March 2015. http://penguinrandomhouse. ca/ha­ zlitt/feature/quebec­not­so­secular. 3 Simon Langlois et al., Recent Social Trends in Québec (Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 1992), 393. 4 Ibid., 395. 5 Ibid., 394. 6 Alexander Chislenko et al., “Transhumanist faq,” Humanity+ (1999), accessed March 4, 2015. http:// humanityplus.org/philosophy/ transhumanist­faq/. 7 Nick Bostrom, “A History of Transhumanist Thought,” Journal of Evolution and Technology 14, no.1 (2005), 12. 8 Humanity+, “Mission.” 9 Justice De Thézier, “What is Quebecer ... Transhumanism?” World Transhumanist Association, January 22, 2006, accessed 12 March 2015. http://www.transhumanism.org/index.php/WTA/more/496/. 10 James Hughes, “Democratic Transhumanism 2.0,” World Transhumanist Association, accessed 4 March 2015. http://www. changesurfer.com/Acad/DemocraticTranshumanism.htm. 11 Ibid. 12 Justice De Thézier, “nexus: The Montreal Transhumanist Association Becomes the Quebec Transhumanist Association.” World Transhumanist Association, November 2004, accessed 4 March 2015. http://www. transhumanism.org/index.php/WTA/more/593/. 13 Solaris, “Les transhumanistes Québécois.” World Transhumanist Association, Winter 2007, accessed 4 March 2015. http:// www. transhumanism.org/index.php/WTA/more/1263/. 14 Ibid.

314

Notes to pages 237–40

15 Justice De Thézier, “mute: Why Reimaginative Democrats Should Ignore the Siren Songs of a Posthuman Future.” Re-Public, 15 October 2013, accessed 4 March 2015. https://web.archive.org/ web/20131015014714/http://www.re­public.gr/en/?p=660.  16 Montreal Futurists, “About Us.” 6 April 2015, accessed 2 May 2015. http://www.meetup.com/ Montreal­Futurists/. 17 Noös Montreal, “Transhumanists, Technophiles, and Beers.” 3 February 2016. http://allevents.in/montreal/no%C3%B6s­~­transhu­ manists­technophiles­and­beers/1549904098662779 18 Bob Harvey, The Future of Religion, Interviews with Christians on the Brink (Ottawa: Novalis, 2001), 43. 19 Robert J. Wright, A Companion to Bede: A Reader’s Commentary on The Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 1. 20 Douglas John Hall, “Confessing Christ in a Post­Christendom Context,” Address to the 1999 Covenant Conference, Covenant Network of Presbyterians, Atlanta, 5 November 1999, accessed 17 January 2009. http://covenantnetwork.org/sermon&papers/hall1. html. 21 Ibid. 22 Karl Marx, Critique of Hegel’s ‘Philosophy of Right,’ translated by Annette Jolin and Joseph O’Malley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 131. 23 Cromwell S. Crawford, Hindu Bioethics for the Twenty-First Century, (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003) 181. 24 Christopher Lasch, “Aging in a Culture without a Future,” Hastings Center Report 7, no. 4 (1977), 43. 25 Nick Bostrom,“Transhumanist Values.” 2003, accessed 28 July 2005. http://www.nickbostrom.com/ ethics/values.pdf. 26 Yasmine Mosimann, “Reconceptualizing High Power(s): Exploring New Religious Movements in Quebec,” McGill Daily, 16 March 2015, accessed 2 May 2015. http://www.mcgilldaily.com/ 2015/03/ reconceptualizing­higher­powers 27 Allan M. Savage and Peter Stuart, The Catholic Faith and the Social Construction of Religion: With Particular Attention to the Québec Experience (Bloomington: WestBow Press, 2011), 39–41. 28 Ibid.

Notes to pages 241–5

315

29 Susan Palmer, Aliens Adored: Rael’s ufo Religion (New Brunswick, nj: Rutgers University Press, 2004), 64–5. 30 Ibid., 64. 31 Ibid., 65. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid., 78. 34 Ibid. 35 Savage and Stuart, The Catholic Faith and the Social Construction of Religion, 52. 36 Palmer, Aliens Adored, 92. 37 Ronald Cole­Turner, “More Than Human: Religion, Bioethics, and the Transhuman Prospect,” in Continuity + Change: Perspectives on Science and Religion, Metanexus’ 7th Annual Conference, June 5, 2006 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania). 38 Chislenko et al., “Transhumanist faq.” 39 Ludwig Feuerbach, Lectures on the Essence of Religion, translated by Ralph Manheim (New York: Harper & Row, 1967), 33. 40 Ibid., 266. 41 Ibid., 267. 42 This is reminiscent of Renaissance philosopher Marsilio Ficino who described humankind as “endowed with a genius [...] that is almost the same as that of the Author of the heavens, and that man would be able to make the heavens in some way if he only possessed the instru­ ments and the celestial material [...].” See David R. Kinsley, Ecology and Religion: Ecological Spirituality in Cross-Cultural Perspective (Upper Saddle River, nj: Prentice­Hall, 1995), 126. 43 Feuerbach, Lectures, 272. 44 Catechism of the Catholic Church §1049. 45 Gen. 3:19. 46 Feuerbach, Lectures, 281. Christianity’s commitment to social justice, for instance, seriously challenges this claim. 47 Feuerbach, Lectures, 36, 277–8. 48 Ibid., 277–8. 49 Ibid., 216–17. 50 Julian Huxley employs the term “divinity” to designate those phe­ nomena that “introduce us to a realm beyond our ordinary experi­ ence.” See Julian Huxley, Essays of a Humanist (London: Chatto and Windus, 1964), 223.

316

Notes to pages 245–7

51 Feuerbach, Lectures, 37. 52 He also calls “the divinity of man” the ultimate end of religion. See Feuerbach, Lectures, 207. 53 Ibid., 35–6. 54 Gen. 2:7; 2:15. 55 Feuerbach, Lectures, 282–3. 56 I do not deny that one can find elements in the Christian tradition and Scripture that encourage the desacralization of nature and the eleva­ tion of humans above the natural world as Lynn White famously pointed out in “The Historical Roots of Our Ecologic Crisis,” Science 155, no. 3767 (1967). However, these could never amount to the negation of nature of which humans are part. See also Kinsley, Ecology and Religion, 103–24. 57 “At the dawn of history,” Feuerbach recounts, “religion was man’s only means of bending nature to his aims and desires.” See Lectures, 207. In this day, we have secured other means of manipulating the natural world. 58 George Edward Moore, Principia Ethica (Amherst: Prometheus, 1988), 9–10. I thank Dr Maurice Boutin at the Faculty of Religious Studies, McGill University for bringing this to my attention. 59 Harvey Cox, The Future of Faith, 44. 60 See Harvey Cox, The Secular City: Secularization and Urbanization in Theological Perspective (New York: Macmillan, 1965). 61 Cox, The Future of Faith, 41–8. 62 Edward Bailey, “Secular Religion,” in Encyclopedia of Religion and Society, edited by William H. Swatos, Jr., accessed 20 August 2009. 63 Bailey, “The Implicit Religiosity of the Secular,” in Defining Religion: Investigating the Boundaries between the Sacred and Secular, edited by Arthur L. Greil and David G. Bromley (Oxford: Elsevier Science, 2003), 60. 64 Bailey, “The Implicit Religiosity of the Secular,” 60. Compare this to Mircea Eliade’s reference to the “profane” as “a desacralization of human existence.” See Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion, translated by Willard R. Trask (San Diego: Harcourt, 1959), 204. 65 Of course, my reference here (to John 15:19; 17:14–18) is Christian since this chapter has largely focussed on the Roman Catholic

Notes to pages 247–9

66

67

68

69

70

71 72 73

74

317

tradition. That said, the this­worldly and other­worldly orientation is an important characteristic of the world’s religions. Bailey, “The Implicit Religiosity of the Secular,” 55. See also Bailey, “The Implicit Religion of Contemporary Society: An Orientation,” Social Compass 37, no. 4 (1990), 69–83; Bailey, “The Implicit Religion of Contemporary Society: Some Studies,” 483–98. Bailey, The Secular Quest for Meaning in Life (New York: Edwin Mellen Press, 2002), 9; Bailey, “The Implicit Religiosity of the Secular,” 65. Thomas Luckmann, The Invisible Religion: The Problem of Religion in Modern Society (New York: Macmillan, 1967); Roland Robertson, The Sociological Interpretation of Religion (New York: Schocken, 1970); Arthur L. Greil, “Exploration Along the Sacred Frontier: Notes on Para­Religions, Quasi­Religions, and Other Boundary Phenomena,” in The Handbook on Cults and Sects in America, edited by David G. Bromley and Jeffrey K. Hadden (Greenwich, ct: jai Press, 1993); Arthur L. Greil and Thomas Robbins, eds., Between Sacred and Secular: Research and Theory on Quasi-Religion (Greenwich, Connecticut: jai Press, 1994); James E. Dittes, “Secular Religion: Dilemma of Churches and Researchers,” Review of Religious Research 10, no. 2 (1969): 65–81; Roberto Cipriani, “Religiosity, Religious Secularism and Secular Religions,” International Social Science Journal 46, no. 2 (1994): 277–84. William A. Lessa and Evon Z. Vogt, Reader in Comparative Religion: An Anthropological Approach, 2nd edition (New York: Harper & Row, 1965), xii. Patrick D. Hopkins, “Transcending the Animal: How Transhumanism and Religion Are and Are Not Alike,” Journal of Evolution & Technology 14, no. 2 (2005), 13. Ibid. Chislenko et al., “Transhumanist faq,” Humanity Plus Magazine. http://hplusmagazine.com/transhumanist­faq/. Hopkins, “Transcending the Animal,” 22. Instead of “methods of transcendence,” I think “means to achieve transcendence” better cap­ tures what Hopkins is trying to say. Ibid. 22–3.

318

Notes to pages 249–52

75 See Heidi Campbell and Mark Walker, “Religion and Transhumanism: Introducing a Conversation.” Journal of Evolution & Technology 14, no. 2 (2005): i–xiv. 76 Gregory E. Jordan, “Apologia for Transhumanist Religion,” Journal of Evolution & Technology 15, no. 1 (2006): 55–72. 77 Chislenko et al., “Transhumanist faq.” This assumption that religious believers cannot also be rational thinkers is offensive, yet not uncommon. 78 Margaret Somerville, The Ethical Imagination: Journeys of the Human Spirit (Toronto: Anansi, 2006), 175–6. 79 As such, this is a functional definition of secular religion rather than a substantive one. See Bailey’s discussion of these two approaches in Bailey, “The Implicit Religiosity of the Secular,” 55–7. 80 Margaret Somerville, “Is Quebec Creating a Secular Utopia?” Aleteia, 5 September 2013, accessed May 2, 2015. http://aleteia. org/2013/09/05/is­quebec­creating­a­secular­utopia/ 81 Brent Waters, From Human to Posthuman: Christian Theology and Technology in a Postmodern World (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 80. 82 Ibid., 78–9. This echoes Bailey’s notion of implicit religiosity that was discussed earlier. 83 Ibid., 79. 84 Jordan, “Apologia for Transhumanist Religion,” 56. Recall our discus­ sion of Huxley and Feuerbach on this matter. 85 Waters, From Human to Posthuman, 79. 86 Jordan borrows this list of characteristics from G.D. Alles, but does not go on to explain what he means by “prototypical religion.” The implication, though, is that he is referring to the world’s religions. See Jordan, “Apologia for Transhumanist Religion,” 56–60. 87 Ibid. 58–60, 62–3. Recall that, for Feuerbach, dependence (on nature) is the “fundamental truth” in all religion. See Feuerbach, Lectures, 37. 88 Jordan, “Apologia for Transhumanist Religion,” 71. 89 Waters, From Human to Posthuman, 80. 90 Ibid., 79; 92. 91 In particular, the fifth and sixth chapters of Waters’ From Human to Posthuman address some of the concerns noted here.

Notes to pages 252–3

319

92 Taylor, A Secular Age, 535. 93 Bailey opines that we would be better off looking for “definitions (in the plural) of what is meant by ‘religious’ (adjectivally), rather than ‘re­ ligion’ (substantively).” See “The Implicit Religiosity of the Secular,” 58. 94 Ibid., 59.

Selected Bibliography

Adelman, Howard, and Pierre Anctil. Religion, Culture, and the State: Reflections on the Bouchard-Taylor Report. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011. Adelson, Naomi. ‘Being alive well’: Health and the Politics of Cree Wellbeing. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000.  Amiraux, Valérie. “The ‘Illegal Covering’ Saga: What’s Next? Sociological Perspectives.” Social Identities 19, no. 6 (2013): 794–806. – “Religious Discrimination: Muslims Claiming Equality in the eu.” In European Anti-Discrimination and the Politics of Citizenship: Britain and France, edited by Christophe Bertossi, 143–77. Basingstoke, uk: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. Anderson, Emma. The Death and Afterlife of the North American Martyrs. Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 2013. Armitage, Peter. “Religious Ideology among the Innu of Eastern Quebec and Labrador.” Religiologiques 6 (1992): 63–110.  Astuti, Rita, and Maurice Bloch. “Are Ancestors Dead?” In A Companion to the Anthropology of Religion, edited by Janice Boddy and Michael Lambek, 103–17. London: Wiley Blackwell, 2013. Audet, Véronique. “Les chansons et musiques populaires innues: contexte, signification et pouvoir dans les expériences sociales de jeunes Innus.” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 35, no. 3 (2005): 19–30. Babadzan, Alain. “Inventer des mythes, fabriquer des rites?” Archives européennes de sociologie 25, no. 2 (1984): 309–18. – “L’invention des traditions et le nationalisme.” Journal de la Société des océanistes 109, no. 2 (1999): 13–35.

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Bailey, Edward. “The Implicit Religion of Contemporary Society: Some Studies and Reflections.” Social Compass 37, no. 4 (1990): 483–98. – The Secular Quest for Meaning in Life: Denton Papers in Implicit Religion. Lewiston, ny: Edwin Mellen Press, 2002. Baillargeon, Normand, and Jean­Marc Piotte. Le Québec en quête de laïcité. Montréal: Éditions Écosociété, 2011. Bakhtin, Mikhail. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, edited by Michael Holquist. Austin, tx: University of Texas Press, 1981. Baril, Daniel, and Yvan Lamonde (eds). Pour une reconnaissance de la lacite au Quebec: enjeux philosophiques, politiques et juridiques. Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2013. Barker, Fiona. “Learning to be a Majority: Negotiating Immigration, Integration and National Membership in Québec.” Political Science 62, no. 1 (2010): 11–36. Bastenier, Albert. Qu’est-ce qu’une société ethnique? Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2004. Bathazar, Louis. “La nationalité québécoise et l’Église catholique.” In La Nation sans la Religion?: Le Défi des ancrages au Québec, edited by Louis­André Richard, 131–53. Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2009. Baum, Gregory. “Catholicism and Secularization in Quebec,” in Rethinking Church, State and Modernity, edited by David Lyon and Marguerite Van Die, 149–65. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000. – The Church in Quebec. Ottawa: Novalis, 1991. – Truth and Relevance: Catholic Theology in French Canada since the Quiet Revolution. Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2014. Beaman, Lori, ed. Religion and Canadian Society, 2nd ed. Toronto: Canadian Scholars’ Press, 2012. Beaudry, Nicole. “La composition des chants amérindiens: création ou transmission?” Les Cahiers de l’ARMuQ, no. 14 (1992): 1–13. Ben­Ur, Aviva. Sephardic Jews in America: A Diasporic History. New York and London: New York University Press, 2009. Béraud, Céline. “Quand les questions de genre travaillent le catholicisme.” Études 2, no. 414 (2011): 211–21.

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– Prêtres, diacres, laïcs. Révolution silencieuse dans le catholicisme français. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2007. Bibby, Reginald. “La religion à la carte au Québec: Une analyse de tendances.” Sociologie et sociétés 22, no. 2 (1990): 133–44. Bibby, Reginald, and Isabelle Archambault. “La religion à la carte au Québec: Un problème d’offre, de demande, ou des deux?” Globe: revue internationale d’études québécoises 11, no. 1 (2008): 151–79. Bienvenue, Louise. Quand la jeunesse entre en scène: l’action catholique avant la révolution tranquille. Montreal: Boréal, 2003. Black, Charlene Villeseñor. Creating the Cult of Saint Joseph: Art and Gender in the Spanish Empire. Princeton, nj: Princeton University Press, 2006. – “St Anne Imagery and Maternal Archetypes in Spain and Mexico.” In Colonial Saints: Discovering the Holy in the Americas, 1500–1800, edited by Allan Greer and Jodi Bilinkoff, 3–29. New York: Routledge, 2003. Boglioni, Pierre, and Benoit Lacroix. Les Pèlerinages au Québec. Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1981. Bostrom, Nick. “A History of Transhumanist Thought.” Journal of Evolution and Technology 14, no. 1 (2005): 1–25. Bouchard, Nancy and Mathieu Gagnon, eds. Éthique et culture religieuse: réflexions critiques et prospectives. Quebec: Presses de l’Université du Quebec, 2012. Boutin, Maurice. “Mémoire selective et tradition.” In Modernité et religion au Québec. Où en sommes-nous?, edited by Robert Mager and Serge Cantin, 67–76. Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2010. Boutin, Suzanne. “Le pèlerinage: forme alternative de recours thérapeutique dans le Québec modern.” Counseling et spiritualité 27, no. 1 (2008): 151–65. Buddle, Kathleen. “Media, Markets and Powwows. Matrices of Aboriginal Cultural Mediation in Canada.” Cultural Dynamics 16, no. 1 (2004): 29–69. Burity, Joanildo A. “‘Entrepreneurial Spirituality and Ecumenical Alterglobalism’: Two Religious Responses to Global Neoliberalism.” In Religion in the Neoliberal Age: Political Economy and Modes of

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Crawford, Cromwell S. Hindu Bioethics for the Twenty-First Century. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003. Crépeau, Robert, and Marie­Pierre Bousquet, eds. Dynamiques religieuses des autochtones des Amériques/Religious Dynamics of Indigenous People of the Americas. Paris: Karthala, 2012. Csordas, Thomas. Body/Meaning/Healing. New York: Palgrave, 2002. – Language, Charisma, & Creativity: Ritual Life in the Catholic Charismatic Renewal. New York: Palgrave, 2001. – The Sacred Self: A Cultural Phenomenology of Charismatic Healing. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994. Curtis, Finbarr. “The Study of American Religions: Critical Reflections on a Specialization.” Religion 42, no. 3 (2012): 355–72. Daviau, Pierrette, and Louis­Charles Lavoie. La spiritualité au mitan de la vie. Étude comparative du féminin et du masculine. Quebec City: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2008. Demart, Sarah. “Le ‘combat pour l’intégration’ des églises issues du Réveil congolais rdc. ” Revue Européenne des Migrations Internationales 24, no. 3 (2008): 147–65. Desbiens, Caroline. “‘Women with no femininity’: Gender, race and nation­building in the James Bay Project.” Political Geography 23, no. 3 (2004): 347–66. Desjarlais, Robert. Body and Emotion: the Aesthetics of Illness and Healing in the Nepal Himalayas. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992. Diamond, Beverley, and Anna Hoefnagels. Aboriginal Music in Contemporary Canada: Echoes and Exchanges. Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2012. Diamond, Beverley, S.M. Cronk, and F. Von Rosen. Visions of Sound: Musical Instruments of First Nations Communities in North Eastern America. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1994. Diner, Hasia R. Hungering for America: Italian, Irish, and Jewish Foodways in the Age of Migration. Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 2001. Douglas, Mary. Implicit Meanings. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978. Dubisch, Jill. “Body, Self and Cosmos in ‘New Age’ Energy Healing.” In Corporeal Inscriptions: Representations of the Body in Cultural and Literary Texts and Practices, edited by Edyta Lorek­Jezinska and

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Katarzina Wieckowska, 221–35. Torun: Nicholas Copernicus University Press, 2005. Dumas, Marc. “Mutations contemporaines du religieux: Entre conservatisme et extase.” In Qu’est-ce que le religieux contemporain?, edited by Patrick Snyder and Martine Pelletier, 13–26. Montreal: Fides, 2011. Eade, John, and Michael J. Sallnow. Contesting the Sacred: The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage. London: Routledge, 1991. Ebaugh, Helen R., and Janet S. Chafetz. Religion and the New Immigrants. Walnut Creek, California: AltaMira Press, 2000. Eid, Paul. Being Arab: Ethnic and Religious Identity Building Among Second Generation Youth in Montreal. Montreal & Kingston: McGill­ Queen’s University Press, 2007. Ellis, Clyde. A Dancing People. Powwow Culture on the Southern Plains. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2003. Emmons, Charles F. “On Becoming a Spirit Medium in a Rational Society.” Anthropology of Consciousness 12, no. 1 (2001): 71–82. Fancello, Sandra. “‘Afrique élève l’Europe’ Pentecôtisme, afrocentrisme et démocratie.” In Chrétiens africains en Europe, Prophétisme, pentecôtisme et politique des nations, edited by Sandra Fancello and André Mary, 217–41. Paris: Karthala, 2010. Fay, Terrence. A History of Canadian Catholics. Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2002. Fessenden, Tracy. Culture and Redemption: Religion, the Secular and American Literature. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007. Frankenberg, Ruth. Living Spirit, Living Practice: Poetics, Politics, and Epistemology. Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 2004. Freston, Paul. “Reverse Mission: A Discourse In Search Of Reality?” PentecoStudies: An Interdisciplinary Journal for Research on the Pentecostal and Charismatic Movements 9, no. 2 (2010): 153–74. Fuller, Robert C. Spiritual But Not Religious. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. Gagné, Natacha, and Laurent Jérôme. Jeunesses autochtones: Affirmation, innovation et résistance dans les mondes contemporains. Ste­Foy, Québec and Rennes: Les Presses de l’Université Laval and Les Presses de l’Université de Rennes, 2009. Gauchet, Marcel. La condition historique. Paris: Gallimard, 2005.

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– La religion dans la démocratie. Parcours de la laïcité. Paris: Gallimard, 1998. – Le désenchantement du monde. Une histoire politique de la religion. Paris: Gallimard, 1985. Gauthier, François, Tuomas Martikainen, and Linda Woodhead. “Introduction: Consumerism as the Ethos of Consumer Society.” In Religion in the Neoliberal Age: Poltical Economy and Modes of Governance, edited by Tuomas Martikainen and François Gauthier, 1–24. Farnham: Ashgate, 2013. Gauvreau, Michael. The Catholic Origins of Quebec’s Quiet Revolution, 1931–1970. Montreal and Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2005. – “Without Making a Noise: The Dumont Commission and the Drama of Quebec’s Dechristianization, 1968–1971.” In The Sixties and Beyond: Dechristianization in North America and Western Europe, 1945–2000, edited by Michael Gauvreau and Nancy Christie, 186–216. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013. Gélinas, Claude. “Les fonctions identitaires de la religion en milieu autochtones au Canada: ébauche d’un modèle d’analyse.” In Qu’est-ce que le religieux contemporain?, edited by Patrick Snyder and Martine Pelletier, 173–94. Montreal: Fides, 2011. Geoffroy, Martin, and Jean­Guy Vaillancourt. “The New Pilgrimage – Return to Tradition or Adaptation to Modernity: The Case of Saint Joseph’s Oratory, Montreal.” In On the Road to Being There: Studies in Pilgrimage and Tourism in Late Modernity, edited by William H. Swatos Jr, 255–75. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Giordan, Giuseppe. “The Body between Religion and Spirituality.” Social Compass 56, no. 2 (2009): 226–36. Goldscheider, Calvin. “Boundary Maintenance and Jewish Identity: Comparative and Historical Perspectives.” In Boundaries of Jewish Identities, edited by Susan A. Glenn and Naomi B. Sokoloff, 110–31. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010. – “Immigration and the Transformation of American Jews: Assimilation, Distinctiveness, and Community.” In Immigration and Religion in America: Comparative and Historical Perspectives, edited by Richard Alba, Josh DeWind, and Albert Raboteau, 198–223. New York: New York University Press, 2000.

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Goulet, Jean­Guy. “Legal Victories for the Dene Tha?: Their Significance for Aboriginal Rights in Canada. ” Anthropologica 52, no. 1 (2010): 15–31. – “Le lien inaliénable entre le Créateur et les Premières Nations. Une dimension méconnue des affirmations identitaires au Canada et au Québec.” In Dynamiques religieuses des autochtones des Amériques/ Religious Dynamics of Indigenous People of the Americas, edited by Robert R. Crépeau and Marie­Pierre Bousquet, 25–61. Paris: Karthala, 2012. – Ways of Knowing: Experience, Knowledge, and Power Among the Dene Tha. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1998. Greenspoon, Leonard, Ronald Simkins, and Gerald Shapiro, eds. Food and Judaism. Omaha, Nebraska: Creighton University Press, 2005. Greil, Arthur L. “Exploration Along the Sacred Frontier: Notes on Para­ Religions, Quasi­Religions, and Other Boundary Phenomena.” In The Handbook on Cults and Sects in America, edited by David G. Bromley and Jeffrey K. Hadden. Greenwich, ct: jai Press, 1993. Gunn, T. Jeremy. “Religious Freedom and Laïcité: A Comparison of the United States and France.” Journal of Church and State 46, no. 1 (2004): 7–24. Hall, David, ed. “Introduction.” In Lived Religion in America, viii­xiii. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997. Harkin, Michael. “A Tradition of Invention: Modern Ceremonialism on the Northwest Coast.” In Present is Past: Some Uses of Tradition in Native Societies, edited by Marie Mauzé, 97–111. Oxford: University Press of America, 1997. Heelas, Paul, and Linda Woodhead. The Spiritual Revolution: Why Religion is Giving Way to Spirituality. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. Hervieu­Leger, Danièle. Religion As a Chain of Memory [1991]. New Brunswick, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2000. – “Space and Religion: New Approaches to Religious Spatiality in Modernity.” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 26, no. 1 (2002): 99–105. Hoefnagels, Anna. “Complementarity and Cultural Ideals: Women’s Roles in Contemporary Canadian Powwows.” In Women and Music: A Journal of Gender and Culture 16 (2012): 1–22.

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Hopkins, Patrick D. “Transcending the Animal: How Transhumanism and Religion Are and Are Not Alike.” Journal of Evolution & Technology 14, no. 2 (2005): 13–28. Hudon, Christine, and Ollivier Hubert. “The Emergence of a Statistical Approach to Social Issues in Administrative Practices of the Catholic Church in the Province of Quebec.” In The Churches and the Social Order in Nineteenth and Twentieth-Century Canada, edited by Michael Gauvreau and Ollivier Hubert, 46–65. Montreal & Kingston: McGill­ Queen’s University Press, 2006. Inness, Sherrie (ed.). Kitchen Culture in America. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001. Jérôme, Laurent. “L’anthropologie à l’épreuve de la décolonisation de la recherche dans les études autochtones: un terrain politique en contexte Atikamekw.” Anthropologie et sociétés 32, no. 3 (2008): 97–122. – “Les cosmologies autochtones et la ville: sens et appropriation des lieux à Montréal.” Anthropologica 52, no. 2 (2015): 327–39. – “Musique, tradition et parcours identitaire de jeunes Atikamekw: la pratique du tewehikan dans un processus de convocation culturelle.” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 35, no. 3 (2005): 19–30. Jordan, Gregory E. “Apologia for Transhumanist Religion.” Journal of Evolution & Technology 15, no.1 (2006): 55–72. Kaell, Hillary. “Marking Memory: Heritage Work and Devotional Labour at Quebec’s Croix de Chemin.” In The Anthropology of Catholicism: A Reader, edited by Maya Mayblin, Kristin Norget, and Valentina Napolitano, 122–38. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017. – “Quebec’s Wayside Crosses and the Creation of Contemporary Devotionalism.” In The Long Shadow of Vatican II, edited by Lucas Van Rompay, Sam Miglarese, and David A. Morgan, 102–27. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015. Kane, Paula. “Marian Devotionalism since 1940: Continuity or Casualty?” In Habits of Devotion: Catholic Religious Practice in Twentieth-Century America, edited by James M. O’Toole, 89–130. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 2004. Keillor, Elaine. “Les tambours des Athapascans du Nord.” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 15, no. 4 (1985): 43–53.

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Kinsley, David R. Ecology and Religion: Ecological Spirituality in CrossCultural Perspective. Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice­Hall, 1995. Koussens, David. “Neutrality of the State and Regulation of Religious Symbols in Schools in Québec and France.” Social Compass 56, no.2 (2009): 202–13. – “Review of Louis Rousseau (dir), Le Québec après Bouchard­Taylor.” Études d’histoire religieuse 78, no. 2 (2012): 109–12. Kraemer, David. Jewish Eating and Identity Through the Ages. New York: Taylor & Francis, 2007. Kymlicka, Will. “Ethnocultural Diversity in a Liberal State: Making Sense of the Canadian Model(s).” In Belonging? Diversity, Recognition and Shared Citizenship in Canada, edited by Keith Banting, Thomas J. Courchene, and F. Leslie Seidle, 39–86. Montreal: The Institute for Research on Public Policy, 2007. Laguë, Micheline. “Femmes et célébration eucharistique: jalons historiques et symbolisme.” Théologiques 10, no.1 (2002): 207–28. Laliberté, André, Bruce J. Berman, and Rajeev Bhargava, eds. Secular States and Religious Diversity. Vancouver­Toronto: University of British Columbia Press, 2013. Lamonde, Yvan. L’heure de vérité: La laïcité québécoise à l’heure de l’histoire. Montreal: Del Busso, 2010. Lane, Belden C. “Giving Voice to Place: Three Models for Understanding American Sacred Space.” Religion and American Culture 11, no.1 (2001): 53–81. Lassiter, Luke.E. The Power of Kiowa Songs: A Collaborative Ethnography. Tucson, Arizona: University of Arizona Press, 1998. Larouche, Jean­Marc, and Guy Ménard. L’étude de la religion au Québec: Bilan et prospective. Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2001. Laugrand, Frédéric. Mourir et renaître. La réception du christianisme par les Inuit de l’Arctique de l’Est canadien. Quebec: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2002. Laugrand Frédéric and Robert Crépeau, eds. “Shamanism, Religious Networks and Empowerment in Indigenous Societies of America.” Anthropologica 57, no 2: 2015. Laugrand, Frédéric, and Jarich Oosten. “Connecting to the Dead: Inuit

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Piette, Albert. La religion de près: l’activité religieuse en train de se faire. Paris: Métailié, 1999. Poirier, Sylvie. “Présentation. La dépolitisation de la culture? Réflexion sur un concept pluriel.” Anthropologie et Sociétés 28, no. 1 (2004): 7–21. Preston, Richard J. “Traditions musicales et culturelles chez les Cris de l’Est.” Recherches amérindiennes au Québec 15, no. 4 (1985): 19–28. Racine, Jacques. “École Québécoise, modernité et religion.” In Modernité et religion au Québec, edited by Robert Mager and Serge Cantin, 277–91. Ste­Foy, Québéc: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2010. Richard, Louis­André. La nation sans religion? Le défi des ancrages au Québec. Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2009. Ridington, Amber. “Continuity and Innovation in the Dane­zaa Dreamers’ Song and Dance Tradition: A Forty­Year Perspective.” In Aboriginal Music in Contemporary Canada: Echoes and Exchanges, edited by Anna Hoefnagels and Beverley Diamond, 31–60. Kingston: McGill­ Queens University Press, 2012. Roberts, Rosemary. “‘Healing My Body, Healing the Land’: Healing as Sociopolitical Activism in Reclaiming Witchcraft.” Ethnologies 33, no. 1 (2011): 75–95. Robbins, Joel. “The Globalisation of Pentecostal and Charismatic Christianity.” Annual Review of Anthropology, no. 33 (2004): 117–43. Robillard, Denise. Les Merveilles de l’Oratoire: l’Oratoire Saint-Joseph du Mont-Royal, 1904–2004. Québec: Edition Fides, 2005. Rocher, Marie­Claude, and Marc Pelchat. Le Patrimoine des minorités religieuses au Québec: Richesse et vulnerabilité. Quebec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2006. Rosenblum, Jordan D. Food and Identity in Early Rabbinic Judaism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Ross­Bryant, Lynn. “Sacred Sites: Nature and Nation in the US National Parks.” Religion and American Culture 15, no.1 (2005): 31–62. Rousseau, Louis, ed. Le Québec après Bouchard-Taylor: Les identités religieuses de l’immigration. Montreal: Les Presses de l’Université du Québec, 2012. Routhier, Gilles. “Governance of the Catholic Church in Quebec: An Expression of the Distinct Society?” In The Churches and the Social Order in Nineteenth and Twentieth-Century Canada, edited by Micheal

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Gauvreau and Ollivier Hubert, 292–314. Montreal & Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2006. – “La paroisse, ses figures, ses modèles et ses representations.” In Paroisses et ministères. Métamorphoses du paysage paroissial et avenir de la mission, edited by Gilles Routhier and Alphonse Barras, 197–251. Montreal: Médiaspaul, 2001. Rudy, Jarrett, Stéphan Gervais, and Chris Kirkey. Quebec Questions: Quebec Studies for the Twenty-First Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Savage, Allan M., and Peter Stuart. The Catholic Faith and the Social Construction of Religion: With Particular Attention to the Québec Experience. Bloomington: WestBow Press, 2011. Scott, Joan Wallach. “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis.” The American Historical Review 91, no. 5 (1986): 1053–75. Selby, Jennifer A. “Un/veiling Women’s Bodies: Secularism and Sexuality in Full­face Veil Prohibitions in France and Québec.” Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses 43, no. 3 (2014): 439–66. Seljak, David. “Resisting the No Man’s Land of Private Religion: The Catholic Church and Public Politics in Quebec,” In Rethinking Church, State and Modernity, edited by David Lyon and Marguerite Van Die, 131–48. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000. Servais, Olivier. Des jésuites chez les Amérindiens ojibwas: histoire et ethnologie d’une rencontre, XVIIe–XXe siècles. Paris: Karthala, 2005. Sharify­Funk, Meena. “Governing the Face Veil: Québec’s Bill 94 and the Transnational Politics of Women’s Identity.” International Journal of Canadian Studies 43 (2011): 135–63. – “Muslims and the Politics of ‘Reasonable Accommodation’: Analyzing the Bouchard­Taylor Report and its Impact on the Canadian Province of Québec.” Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 30, no. 4 (2010): 535–53. Simard, Jean. Le Québec pour terrain: Intinéraire d’un missionaire du patrimoine religieux. Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2004. Snyder, Patrick, and Martine Pelletier, eds. Qu’est-ce que le religieux contemporain? Montreal: Fides, 2011. Soloveitchik, Haym. “Rupture and Reconstruction: The Transformation of Contemporary Orthodoxy.” Tradition 28, no. 4 (1994): 64–130.

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Stark, Rodney. “How New Religions Succeed: A Theoretical Model.” In The Future of New Religious Movements, edited by David G. Bromley and Phillip E. Hammond, 11–29. Macon, Georgia: Mercer University Press, 1987. Stark, Rodney, and Laurence R. Iannaccone. “Response to Lechner: Recent Religious Declines in Québec, Poland, and the Netherlands: A Theory Vindicated.” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 35, no. 3 (1996): 265–71. Stark, Rodney, and William Sims Bainbridge. Religion, Deviance and Social Control. New York: Routledge, 1996. Stern, Pamela. “Subsistence: Work and Leisure.” Études/Inuit/Studies 24, no. 1 (2000): 9–24. Tanner, Adrian. “The cosmology of nature, cultural divergence, and the metaphysics of community healing.” In Figured Worlds: Ontological Obstacles in Intercultural Relations, edited by John R. Clammer, Sylvie Poirier and Eric Schwimmer, 189–222. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004. Taylor, Charles. A Secular Age. Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007. – Varieties of Religious Experience Today: William James Revisited. Cambridge Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2002. Thomson, Dale. “Language, Identity, and the Nationalist Impulse: Québec.” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 538, no. 3 (1995): 69–82. Troper, Harold. The Defining Decade: Identity, Politics, and the Canadian Jewish Community. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010. Tulk, Esther J. “Localizing Intertribal Traditions: The Powwow as Mi’kmaw Cultural Expression.” In Aboriginal Music in Contemporary Canada, edited by Anna Hoefnagels and Beverley Diamond, 70–88. Montreal & Kingston: McGill­Queen’s University Press, 2012. Turgeon, Laurier, ed. Spirit of Place: Between Tangible and Intangible Heritage. Québec: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2009. Turner, Edith. The Hands Feel It: Healing and Spirit Presence Among a Northern Alaskan People. DeKalb, Illinois: Northern Illinois University Press, 1996.

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Contributors

emma anderson is professor of North American religious history at the University of Ottawa. She received her PhD in religious studies from Harvard University in 2005 and is the author of two books. Her first book, The Betrayal of Faith: The Tragic Journey of a Colonial Native Convert (Harvard University Press, 2007) received the American Academy of Religion’s Best First Book in the History of Religions and the Alf Heggoy Prize, awarded by the French Colonial Historical Society. Her second book, The Death and Afterlife of the North American Martyrs (Harvard University Press) was published in November 2013. randall balmer is a prize­winning historian and Emmy Award nominee, as well as John Phillips Professor in Religion at Dartmouth College. He has published widely on American religion in both scholarly journals and the popular press, including the New York Times Book Review, Christian Century, and the Nation. He regularly comments on religion in American life and has appeared frequently on network television, on npr, and on both the  Colbert Report  and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. His scholarly books include Redeemer: The Life of Jimmy Carter  and  Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory: A Journey into the Evangelical Subculture in America, which was the basis for an award­winning, three­part documentary for pbs. hélène charron is interim director of research at the Conseil du statut de la femme and an associated researcher with the Chaire Claire­Bonenfant – Femmes, Savoirs et Sociétés at Laval University where she also teaches courses in feminism and sociology. She completed a PhD in sociology at

340

Contributors

the École des hautes études en sciences sociales at Paris and the Université de Montréal, as well as postdoctoral work at the Centre interuniversitaire en études québécoises. Her research focuses on gender relations in French and Québécois social science. Among other work, she has published Les formes de l’illégitimité intellectuelle: Les femmes dans les sciences sociales françaises, 1890–1940 (Paris: cnrs Éditions, 2013) and La sociologie entre nature et culture: genre et évolution sociale dans L’Année sociologique (Quebec: Les presses de l’Université Laval, 2011). elysia guzik holds a PhD from the Faculty of Information at the University of Toronto. Her dissertation explores how Muslim converts in the Toronto area develop their religious identities through the ways in which they seek, evaluate, and share information resources. She has published on religious reading practices (Journal of Religious & Theological Information, 2015), conceptualizations of information seeking in literature on religious con­ version (Advances in the Study of Information and Religion, 2013), and autoethnographic approaches to information science research (Canadian Journal of Information and Library Science, 2013). laurent jérôme is associate professor of anthropology in the Department of Religion at the Université du Québec à Montréal. His interests include the politics of identity and culture in contemporary aboriginal milieu, with a focus on music, rituals, religious pluralism, healing, and knowledge transfer. A member of the Centre interuniversitaire d’études et de recherches autoch­ tones (ciéra), he is the author of Jeunesses autochtones. Affirmation, innovation et résistance dans les mondes contemporains (Presses de l’Université Laval et Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2009) and coordinated a thematic issue of the journal Anthropologie et Sociétés, titled “Vues de l’Autre, voix de l’objet : matérialiser l’immatériel dans les musées” (2014). norma baumel joseph is professor of religion at Concordia University. She works on women, Judaism and, most recently, food studies. She has been con­ ducting ongoing fieldwork with the Iraqi community in Montreal since the late 1990s. Besides numerous encyclopedia entries, anthology chapters, and journal articles, she has completed two documentaries. Joseph is an associate of the Concordia Institute for Canadian Jewish Studies, founder of the first women’s

Contributors

341

Tefillah group in Canada, promoter of the amendment to Canada’s divorce bill to help agunot, founder of the International Committee for Agunah Rights, chair of the national Canadian Jewish Archives, and founder and associate director of the Azrieli Institute of Israel Studies at Concordia University. hillary kaell is assistant professor of religion at Concordia University. She is a cultural historian and anthropologist with a PhD in American Studies from Harvard University. Her book Walking Where Jesus Walked (New York University Press, 2014) is the first comprehensive study of contempo­ rary US Christian pilgrimage to the Holy Land. She has published aspects of this work and other projects in, among others, Religion: The Journal of Material Culture, the Journal of the American Academy of Religion, and the Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute. She is conducting ongoing research about Catholic crosses in Quebec and developing a second book about the material culture of Christian globalism. cory andrew labrecque is the Raymond F. Schinazi Scholar in Bioethics and Religious Thought, director of the Master of Arts in Bioethics Program, and codirector of Catholic studies at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. He earned a BSc in anatomy and cell biology, an ma in religious studies with specialization in bioethics, and a PhD in religious ethics at McGill University. His research lies at the intersection of religion, medicine, biotechnology, envi­ ronment, and ethics; he studies the impact of emerging/transformative tech­ nologies (especially those related to regenerative and antiageing medicine) on philosophical and theological perspectives on human nature and the human/ nature relationship. For more than a decade, he also served as a pastoral agent in the anglophone region of the Roman Catholic Diocese of St­Jean­Longueuil. deirdre meintel is professor of anthropology at the Université de Montréal. She is cofounder and editor of Diversité urbaine journal and director an interdisciplinary research group of the same name. She is also codirector of the Centre de recherches en études ethniques des universités montréalaises, a research centre for the study of ethnic and religious diver­ sity that comprises fifty researchers from Montréal and Sherbrooke, Québec. Her recent fieldwork focuses on religion and modernity and she has pub­ lished a number of articles on spiritualist experience and mediumship. Most

342

Contributors

recently, she has coauthored a book with Josiane Le Gall on ethnically and sometimes religiously mixed unions (Laval University Press, 2014). géraldine mossière is assistant professor in the Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies at the Université de Montréal. She writes on religion, migration and transnationality, in particular Pentecostal churches and issues related to gender, youth, and ethnicity. She is also interested in modern reli­ gious subjectivities, conversion, and religious hybridities. In 2013, she pub­ lished Converties à l’islam: Parcours de femmes en France et au Québec (Presses de l’Université de Montréal). She is currently conducting ethno­ graphic research on religious diversity in Quebec. frédéric parent is assistant professor of sociology at the Université de Québec à Montréal who specializes in the study of early sociology and social change in late modern Quebec. He is currently coediting a special issue of Cahiers de recherche sociologique on ethnographic methodologies and has previously coedited issues of Recherches sociographiques dedi­ cated to the first Canadian sociologist Léon Gérin, the Cahiers Fernand Dumont, and the French journal Les Études sociales regarding Frederic Le Play’s influence on social science in Quebec. Most recently, he is the author of Le Québec Invisible: Enquête ethnographique dans un village de la grande region de Québec (Presses de l’Université Laval 2015), an ethno­ graphic study of capitalism and God in a Québécois village. meena sharify­funk is associate professor and chair of the Religion and Culture Department at Wilfrid Laurier University, specializing in Islamic studies with a focus on contemporary Muslim thought and identity. Sharify­Funk writes on women and Islam, Sufi hermeneutics, and peace­ making. Her current research focuses on the construction of contemporary North American Muslim identity post­9/11. It is a continuation of her first book,  Encountering the Transnational: Women, Islam, and the Politics of Interpretation  (Ashgate 2008), which examined the impact of transna­ tional networking on Muslim women’s identity, thought, and activism. She also has coedited two volumes,  Cultural Diversity and Islam  (2003) and Contemporary Islam: Dynamic, Not Static (2006).

Index

abortion, 241 accommodation: cultural, 17, 99, 102, 110, 189–93, 200–1, 211, 253; reasonable, 44, 190, 195, 197, 199–200; religious, 3, 32, 110, 117, 187 activists: human rights, 211, 236–7; Muslim, 21, 188, 206–7; reli­ gious, 53 addiction: alcohol, 227; drug, 164, 227 advocacy groups, 203 aesthetics, 20, 37, 40, 132, 170 Africa (North), 12, 102, 190, 192, 218 African: churches, 33, 38–40; Pentecostalism, 17, 35, 39–42, 49, 51–3; worldviews, 37, 41–2 ageing/aging: abolition of, 235, 243, 248; fear of, 238; priests, 55 agency (religious), 231–2 aggiornamento, 12, 234. See also Second Vatican Ecumenical Council

agriculture, 11, 143, 146; family farms, 129, 136–7, 143; farming technologies, 146 Ahmed, Naema, 199. See also hijab; women: Muslim Algeria, 110, 116, 190 Algonquin, 9, 93–4 allophones, 182, 189, 191 American Revolution, 10–11 Amerindian. See Indigenous peoples Anglican Church, 78, 222 anglophones, 4, 6–7, 12, 15, 35, 161, 172, 182, 186, 202, 209; Anglo­Protestants, 4, 12, 103, 188 animals: human communication with, 84; treatment of, 233 Anishnaabe, 82 anthropology: Christian, 245; anthropological study of food, 121 anticlericalism, 24, 161, 185, 191, 242, 257. See also clergy anxiety: individual, 225–6, 230; religious,12, 199; public, 198

344

Index

architecture. See construction (of roads); crosses (wayside); infrastructure Assemblée Chrétienne de la Parole Vivante de Montréal (acpvm), 34–5, 38, 41, 44–5, 48, 51–2 Assemblée dominicale en attente de célébration eucharistique (adace), 56–7, 63–71, 109. See also Eucharist assimilation, 17, 44, 76, 102, 107, 123, 134, 189, 191–2, 197; assimilationism, 44, 191–2. See also immigration: federal policies atheism and atheists, 44, 117, 134, 136, 152, 186, 246, 250 Atikamekw, 18–19, 22, 76–87, 90, 92, 94–8 Australia, 240; Australian Aboriginal peoples, 97 authenticity: cultural, 80–1, 201, 211; musical, 80; within own community, 205, 209; religious, 5, 39, 177, 186, 211, 216, 227, 230, 232 authority: clerical, 160, 177, 232, 257 (see also anticlericalism; clergy); diffuse religious, 217; institutional, 158; religious, 34, 69, 74, 184, 196, 216; of science and technology, 25 autonomy: and Quebec national­ ism, 188–9, 195, 252 (see also Parent Report); of state, 189, 193, 196

“backward” people, 45–6, 204; worldviews, 37. See also “superstitions” Bailey, Edward, 246–7. See also secularization baptism (infant), 5, 58, 63, 135, 157 Belgium, 34, 37, 51 Bellah, Robert, 230–1, 233 Béraud, Céline, 54, 56, 71 Bible (Christian), 35, 65–7, 162, 183, 219 Bill 60: (1963), 194; (2013), 193–4, 196, 198, 201–2, 204–10 Bill 94, 190, 200–2, 204–7, 210 Bill 101, 189, 191 biomedical therapy, 225–6. See also anxiety; depression biotechnology, 235, 252, 341 birth rates, 4, 11, 156, 241 birth rituals, 104. See also baptism Bissonnette, André. See Frère André body: and food, 115; and healing, 227; and Indigenous music, 84; limitations of, 24, 252; modifica­ tion, 237, 253; women’s bodies, 209 Bostrom, Nick, 235, 239–40, 242– 3, 247, 249–50. See also World Transhumanist Association Bouchard, Gérard, 4, 16–17, 202, 204–5 Bouchard­Taylor commission, 4, 15–16, 189–90, 192, 197–200, 202–3, 205–7, 210–11 Brother Andre. See Frère André

Index Buddhism and Buddhists, 13, 16, 31, 218, 225, 228 Canada­Quebec Accord, 193 Canadian Council of Muslim Women (ccmw), 205 Canadian Multiculturalism Act, 193 catechism, 132, 224, 243 Catholic Action movement, 54, 61, 63, 255 Catholic hegemony, 46, 241. See also clergy cemeteries, 60, 62, 134, 147 Charest, Jean, 198 Charter of Quebec Values, 3–4, 6, 44, 187, 193–4, 198, 201, 204, 210. See also Bill 60 (2013) childcare services, 3, 200, 209, 211, 228 children: education of, 24, 136, 197; socializing into religions, 41, 61, 63, 70, 144, 197, 224, 228, 231. See also baptism; child­ care services; family Church and state (relationship between), 256 Church and state (separation of), 189–90, 254 church attendance, 12–13, 24, 73, 135. See also feminization; services churches (sale of), 234. See also Anglican Church; Congolese Pentecostal Church citizenship, 12; ceremonies, 201. See also immigration

345

Civil Rights movement (United States), 11 clairvoyance, 216, 219–20, 229 clergy: Catholic, 10, 133, 217; pas­ toral delegate, 57, 61–2, 66–8; prestige, 70; Protestant, 255; and rituals, 175; shrine, 158, 176, 180–5; and women, 36–7, 55–6, 66–8, 135, 219. See also anticleri­ calism; authority: clerical; sermons colonialism: colonial involvement, 96, 190; colonial period, 254 commitment (religious), 216, 230–3 Communism, 135, 246. See also Marxism community: and Christianity, 37, 58, 182–3; and gender, 23; Jewish, 194; Muslim, 21, 187, 189, 191, 195, 204–6; of Wemotaci, 77, 82 Congo (Democratic Republic of Congo), 33, 37, 40, 45 Congolese Pentecostal Church, 18–19, 32, 34, 40, 42, 47, 51–2 conquest, British (1759), 32, 163 construction (of roads), 11, 137–8, 154. See also crosses (wayside); infrastructure consumerism, 33, 231, 234 continuity: cultural, 76, 78–80, 97, 102, 104, 153, 241; generational, 18; religious, 54, 76–7, 92, 104, 157–8, 231, 233, 242 conversion, 34, 215, 218

346

Index

cosmology: African, 42; Atikamekw, 84, 95; Indigenous, 96; cosmological affects, 147 Cox, Harvey, 238, 246 Cree (Eeyou), 75, 78–9, 84, 91, 94 crosses (wayside): caretakers, 130, 132, 134–7, 139–44, 146–8, 150–2, 154–5; construction of, 130, 132, 137–8, 140–6, 148; devotionalism, 130–1, 133, 143– 4, 146–52; materiality of, 132, 143, 148; and women, 144–5. See also crucifix crucifix, 3, 130, 147, 180, 202 cryonics, 238, 243, 251 cults, 163, 166, 217. See also authority: diffuse religious dance: in African Pentecostal churches, 39–41; in Indigenous religions, 75, 79, 82, 88–90, 94–7. See also powwow De Thézier, Vladimir (Justice), 236– 7, 248. See also Quebec Transhumanist Association deacon (Catholic), 70 death: avoidance of (see immortal­ ity); fear of, 238–9; protection from, 25, 132, 252; rituals sur­ rounding, 104. See also cemeteries deathism, 242–3 democracy: and human rights, 202; and technology, 237 “democratic values”, 191, 195–6, 236

denominationalism (and schools), 103, 194, 197 depression, 225–6, 230 devotion (popular), 256 devotions (Catholic), 10, 12, 21, 132, 144, 146, 177; novena, 145, 175; rosary, 131, 150–2, 165. See also rosary beads difference (cultural), 186–7, 201; celebration of, 20, 36, 38, 52, 92 difference (religious), 186–7, 192, 194; negotiating, 189, 201. See also symbols (religious) discrimination: and immigrants, 51, 192; and Muslim women, 187, 204–9. See also employment: discrimination divorce, 182, 184, 242–3 Dominican Republic, 34, 38 druidry, 218, 227–9 drums (in Indigenous religions), 18–19, 77–95, 98 Duplessis, Maurice, 11, 160 economy: anglo­centric, 11,103; capitalism, 17, 103, 153 (see also consumerism); economic mobil­ ity, 33, 43, 47–52; and French Canadians, 153, 163, 193 ecology (religious), 240 education: anglophone, 103; cur­ riculum, 197; Department of, 194; francophone, 13; reform, 187, 194; public, 15, 189, 194–6; secular, 187, 193–8, 210. See also schools

Index Eliade, Mircea, 140–1 Elibyari, Samaa, 205–6. See also Canadian Council of Muslim Women embodied religion, 9, 216, 222, 228, 231. See also body emigration, 123. See also immigration employment: discrimination, 191, 205–6, 208; public, 206, 211; opportunities, 208–9 England. See Great Britain entrepreneurship, 33, 47 Érmitage Saint­Antoine (esa), 166–70 esoterism, 230 “Ethics and Culture” course. See schools “ethnic conscience,” 17 ethnic minorities, 34, 36–8, 41, 51–2. See also minority ethnicity: and diversity, 35–7, 52, 192 (see also interculturalist rhetoric); and identity, 37, 107–8, 188. See also ethnic minorities Eucharist, 18, 56, 58, 62–4, 182, 184. See also Assemblée domini­ cale en attente de celebration eucharistique Europe (Western), 103, 135, 215 Evangelical Christians, 31, 75, 223, 227–9, 257 evangelism, 250 existentialism, 234, 246 exorcism: of places, 216; of individ­ uals, 37, 216

347

ex-votos, 162, 174–5 fabrique, 57, 59, 135 family: ancestors, 80, 87, 96, 123, 152, 193; fathers, 45, 80, 111, 114, 226; grandparents/elders, 19, 37, 40–3, 51, 53, 76, 81–3, 86–7, 90, 95–6, 101, 120, 224; intergenerational continuity and/ or tensions, 19, 37, 51, 53, 79, 86, 88, 95, 118, 231; meals, 117– 8, 120; mothers, 38, 45, 47, 101, 109, 111–12, 118, 162, 224; rec­ onciliation, 86, 226. See also children Fédération des Femmes du Quebec (Federation of Quebec Women or fqw), 207 feminism, 208; and Bills 60 and 94, 204–7; “state,” 208; traditional, 205. See also feminists feminists, 203, 205, 207–8; Muslim, 205; Quebecois, 207; “state,” 22, 207 feminization: of religious space, 55, 60, 109; of social space, 74. See also church attendance; gender Feuerbach, Ludwig, 243–5 First Amendment (US Constitution), 254 First Nations. See Indigenous peoples flq (Front de libération du Québec), 161 folklore, 55, 88; museums, 154; rituals, 256

348

Index

food: Hinduism, 184; and identity, 37, 99, 108–11, 115, 121–2, 124; Judaism, 99–105, 108–24; rit­ uals, 84, 100, 104, 110, 114 Fox sisters (Margaret and Kate), 217. See also spiritualism and spiritualists France, 6, 9–11, 14, 21, 23–4, 26, 40, 45, 163, 188–91, 197, 217 francophone: culture, 153, 186, 235; public institutions, 192; society, 194, 210. See also French Canadians French Canadians, 4, 10–12, 16, 134, 140, 152–3, 163, 184, 186, 193. See also francophone French Kardecism, 217 French Revolution, 10, 189 freedom: academic, 209; of religion, 25, 188–90, 195–7, 201–4; from religious indoctrination, 195. See also Charter of Quebec Values; laïcité; the Quiet Revolution; Parent Report Frère André, 158–61, 163, 171–2, 177, 180, 185, 224 funerals, 58, 63, 114, 219 future: predictions for Catholicism, 71, 185; and transhumanism, 251 gardens and gardening, 142–5, 148 Gauchet, Marcel, 5 gender: and Pentecostalism, 42, 47; equality, 3, 22, 53, 200–1, 204–9; equity, 36, 46; and Iraqi Jews,

108–9, 119; and labour, 23, 63; and modernity, 23; roles, 55, 63, 256; and women’s rights, 22, 204–9. See also discrimination; employment; feminism globalization, 14, 24, 33, 52, 188, 210 God, 38, 65, 69, 135, 137, 143–4, 146–8, 150–4, 169, 181; bless­ ings from, 35, 39, 46, 48, 50–1; and spiritualism, 220, 226; and transhumanism, 242–4 government: and accommodation, 3–4, 44; 191, 193, 199–201, 206; authority, 11, 167; buildings, 209; discriminatory policies, 187; employees, 210; federal, 78, 192– 3, 197; funding, 14, 20, 184; and preservation of religion, 20; prov­ incial, 78, 156, 191, 193, 254 Great Britain, 10, 197, 217, 232 Haiti, 60; Haitians, 13, 33–5, 37–8, 68, 182, 218 Harper, Stephen, 201 head scarf. See hijab; niqab healing: and Catholic pilgrimages, 21, 160, 166, 175, 256; Indigenous, 75–6, 88; spiritual­ ists, 24, 216, 219, 221–8, 230–2. See also body; medicine; trance healthcare, 187, 189, 197, 200, 208–9, 211, 234 Hebdo, Charlie, 201 heritage: Catholic, 3, 20, 234; Indigenous, 96; language, 195,

Index 197; patrimoine, 7, 157, 170, 178; professionals, 143; Religious Heritage Council, 20; study of, 20 Hérouxville: “Life Standards Charter,” 190, 199 Hervieu­Léger, Danièle, 134 higher education (institutions of), 13. See also university hijab, 3–4, 21–2, 46, 187–8, 192, 195–7, 203–7, 209, 255 Hindus, 16, 21, 31, 169, 182, 184 Holy Spirit, 38, 65, 224 homily, 55, 63, 65–9, 71, 150. See also sermon homogeneity: history of Francophone Quebec, 235; in Judaism, 106–7, 111; in the pub­ lic sphere, 202; in rural Quebec, 135 Hopkins, Patrick, 247–9 human rights, 195, 202, 211, 246. See also activists; Quebec Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms humanism, 240, 246, 250 Humanity+. See World Transhumanist Association identity: collective or group, 36–7, 39, 44, 47, 53, 94, 110, 211; con­ testations, 22, 209; formation, 78, 99–101, 110–11, 186; Indigenous, 18, 75, 78–81, 94–8; politics, 5, 107, 205–6; and Quebec/Quebecois, 20, 22, 31–2,

349

41, 111, 123, 134, 186–9, 192–4, 196–7, 202, 209–11, 234 immigrants: populations, 31, 50, 108; recent, 5, 17, 136, 202. See also immigration; minority: communities immigration: federal policies, 13, 192; Jewish immigration, 102, 110; Muslim immigration, 14, 191–2, 199. See also immigrants immortality, 237–8, 242–4. See also death inclusion (in mainstream Quebecois culture), 22, 32, 36, 45, 52–3, 180, 184, 189. See also inter­ culturalism; multiculturalism; pluralism Indigenous peoples: ancestral land, 75, 81; image of “authentic Indian,” 80–1; North American Indigenous Games, 82; “pan­ Indian” exchanges, 75–6, 78–9, 87–8; resilience and resistance, 75–6, 78, 96–8; urban, 77, 81, 90, 94; youth, 77–81, 86–7, 92, 94–5, 97. See also cosmology; dance: in Indigenous religions; family: grandparents/elders; Métis; powwow; residential schools individualism (in religion), 216, 230, 232–3, 257 industrialization, 241 infrastructure, 11, 61, 104, 137–8, 154. See also construction (of roads)

350

Index

Innu Nation, 78; music, 79, 84, 93 integration, 5, 8, 16–18, 32, 43–4, 47, 51–3, 100, 103, 105, 107–8, 117, 123, 187, 192, 197, 199. See also inclusion interculturalism, 4, 16–17, 36, 43, 187, 192–3 interculturalist rhetoric, 33, 35–6, 38, 107 intergenerational continuity. See family internet. See online; social media invisible religion, 221, 247 Iraq, 23, 101–5, 107, 112–14, 116, 119–21, 123 Islam, 13, 49, 156, 186, 190, 192, 196, 199, 208–9, 218; Islamic practice, 32, 110; Islamic values, 187–8, 198 Islamophobia, 191, 198, 208. See also discrimination Japan, 240; Japanese identity, 115 Jesuit Relations, 82–3 Jesus, 35, 38, 40, 65, 130, 135, 146–7, 149, 151, 162, 174–5, 219 Jews: Ashkenazi Jewish population, 12, 100, 102, 104–6, 110–13, 116, 121–2; Iraqi Jews, 19, 23, 100–13, 116–23; Iraqi Jewish women, 108–9, 118; Sephardi Jewish population, 100, 102, 104, 106, 111. See also commun­ ity; women: Jewish women Jordan, Gregory, 247, 251–2

kinship, 41, 115 kippah, 3, 201 kirpan, 4, 21, 196, 255 Knights of Columbus (Chevaliers de Colomb), 58–9, 61–2, 130–1 La charte de la langue française (The Charter of the French Language), 189 La charte des valeurs québécoises. See Charter of Quebec Values Lacroix, Benoît, 153 laïcité, 3, 15–16, 24, 186, 189, 204 language: Bill 101, 189, 191; loss of, 78, 90, 96–7, 110; religious, 241, 251. See also education; francophone: culture; schools Lesage, Jean, 11, 136, 194 Lévesque, René, 188–9 lived religion/religion vécue, 7–8, 26, 33, 111, 231, 238, 246, 256 “maîtres chez nous,” 11, 25, 188 Mary: Marian century, 146; Marian revival, 165. See also Virgin Mary Marois, Pauline, 3, 136 marriage, 42, 157, 162, 216, 219. See also weddings Marx, Karl, 239 Marxists, Marxism, 103, 246 Mass. See services materialism, 50, 135–6, 240, 250. See also Communism McGuire, Meredith, 216, 227, 231

Index media, 48, 79, 199; new media, 14; Radio­Canada/Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, 95, 201 medicine, 76. See also healing meditation, 177, 224, 226, 229–31, 249 medium (spiritualism), 219–21, 223–6, 230, 232 memory: collective, 86, 96, 134; dislocation of, 112; intergenera­ tional, 79; negative, 182, 192; preservation and transmission, 24, 31, 79, 86, 95–6, 105, 108, 110, 117 Métis, 35 Mexico, 26, 254, Miner, Horace, 6, 150 minister. See clergy minority: communities, 199, 209; culture advocacy, 211; protection of, 210; religious, 20, 32, 186–8, 190–1. See also accommodation; ethnic minorities; immigrants miracles, 39, 144, 157, 161, 164–5, 174 missionaries, 9, 49, 76, 78, 83, 86 modernization, 11, 31, 103, 123, 135, 137 mois de Marie (Month of Mary, May), 130–1, 145–7 Montreal: Catholicism, 182; Congolese Pentecostal churches, 32, 34; immigration, 101, 191–2, 199; Judaism, 100–8, 111, 113– 19, 121, 123, 125; spiritualism,

351

215–29, 240, 254; transhuman­ ism, 236–7 Montreal Transhumanist Association. See Quebec Transhumanist Association Morocco, 34, 121, 190 mosque, 3, 32 multiculturalism, 4, 16, 35–6, 106, 182, 187–8, 192–3, 205, 257. See also pluralism music: popular, 14, 77, 79; Indigenous, 18, 75–98, 256; and Pentecostal churches, 19, 36–7, 43 Muslims, 31–2, 191–2, 197, 199, 203, 205, 208–10. See also Islam; women: Muslim women naming ceremonies (spiritualist), 216 nationalism (Quebec), 14, 20, 234; French Canadian, 12; secular, 14 Nelson, Geoffrey, 217. See also spiritualism and spiritualists neoliberalism, 17, 19, 22, 33, 43–4, 47–9, 51–3 neutrality (religious): in the public sphere, 15, 189, 198; and schools, 197–8; and the state, 44, 200–3. See also Charter of Quebec Values New Age religious movements, 24, 255, 257. See also new religious movements New England, 9, 11, 158 New France, 9, 162–3

352

Index

new religious movements (nrms), 13–4, 23–6, 134, 234–5, 240–2, 255. See also New Age religious movements niqab, 156, 187, 197, 199–201, 204, 209–10 Noös Montreal, 237 nostalgia, 104, 109–10, 115, 121, 124, 153, 156, 182, 185 Notre­Dame­du­Cap (ndc), 165–6, 170 nuns: habits, 188; providing servi­ ces, 196; after Vatican II, 135 Ojibwe, 77, 82, 84 online, 24–5, 48, 229. See also social media otherness/othering, 21, 205, 210; fear of the “other,” 194 paganism, 227–9 Palmer, Susan, 25, 240–2 Parent Report, 194–5 parish: amalgamation, 18, 55, 59, 155; pilgrimages, 171, 175–7; “interparochial” space, 58–9, 61–3; Équipe d’animation locale (Local Facilitation Team), 57, 60–1, 70 Parti Quebecois (pq), 3, 44, 188, 201 patriarchal: authority, 205; ideolo­ gies, 145, 208; structures, 42, 45 patrimoine. See heritage Pentecostalism: churches, 32, 34–9, 43, 45, 50, 75, 229; immigrants, 32,

34, 36, 38, 43, 50–3, 106–7, 256; in Latin America, 33, 227; pastors, 37–8, 41, 43, 45, 48–9, 51–2 pilgrimage and pilgrims, 21, 54, 63, 132, 147, 156–8, 164–85, 224, 227, 256 pluralism, 15–17, 26, 32, 44, 134, 187, 190, 193, 195. See also multiculturalism police, 202, 204, 206 politics: and fundamentalism, 205, 209; and liberalization, 31, 217; political history, 114; political power, 32, 188, 193 Pope Francis, 183 popular religion, 150, 154, 157, 160, 164–7, 171, 254, 256 post­modernism, 14, 251–2 powwow, 75, 78, 85, 87–98 prayers: individual, 131, 143–4, 171–2, 226, 231; Jewish, 105; at school, 199; shared, 39, 133, 145–8, 150, 222, 228; synchron­ ized prayers at a distance, 229. See also healing; social media priests. See clergy “protection” (religious), 204. See also freedom: of religion public: servants, 202, 204; services, 189–90, 193, 198–200, 209–10; spaces, 44, 208 pure laine, 186, 190, 192 Quebec Act (1774), 10 Quebec Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms, 191, 200

Index Quebec City, 56, 92, 162 Quebec Transhumanist Association, 236–7. See also Noös Montreal; World Transhumanist Association Quiet Revolution (Révolution tranquille), 11–2, 23, 25, 45–6, 54–6, 133, 156–7, 160, 163, 180, 185, 187, 194, 196, 202, 210–11, 215, 217, 234, 254 racism, 208. See also discrimination Rael, 240, 242 Raelianism and Raelians, 25, 241– 2, 245 rang, 129, 132, 134, 136–7, 141, 145, 153, reconciliation, 111, 178, 226 referendum (Quebec), 12 regionalization. 55–7, 59–61, 64, 72–3 relics: theft of, 161; pilgrimage to, 173 religious decline, 46, 55, 102, 154, 187, 217, 241 religious diversity, 32, 169, 201–2, 211, 217, 221 religious hybridity, 25, 224 “religious individualism.” See Bellah, Robert; individualism religious symbols: debates about, 187, 196, 202; and public insti­ tutions, 44, 187–94, 198, 202– 6, 209. See also Charter of Quebec Values; freedom: of religion

353

republicanism (French), 10, 16, 32, 190 residential schools, 76. See also assimilation; Indigenous peoples resistance. See Indigenous peoples: resilience and resistance “Reasonable accommodation.” See accommodation reverse mission, 45, 52 Révolution tranquille. See Quiet Revolution rituals: and food, 99, 115; Indigenous, 76, 86; and music, 37; spiritualist, 24, 219 roads. See construction rosary beads, 131, 167; “rosary bridge,” 165. See also devotions (Catholic) rural: Catholic Rural Youth (Jeunesse rurale catholique), 67; community, 132, 136, 146–7; parishes, 18, 54, 64, 73, 109, 134–5, 148; places, 135–6, 154, 255–6; religion, 18, 153–4, 255; roads, 129, 137 (see also rangs); village, 18, 21, 56–9, 70–1, 132, 134–5, 140, 148–9. See also crosses (wayside) Sabbath observance, 100–1, 116– 18, 120–2 sacred sites, 133, 137, 140–1, 143, 152, 157–8, 170, 256 sadness. See depression Saint Anne de Beaupré, 55, 63, 158–9, 161–6, 171–6

354

Index

Saint Anthony of Padua (Saint­ Antoine), 167, 171. See also Érmitage Saint­Antoine Saint Joseph, 144, 152–3, 158–9, 162, 164, 171, 224. See also Saint Joseph’s Oratory Saint Joseph’s Oratory (L’Oratoire Saint­Joseph (OSJ)), 55, 158–61, 164, 168–9, 171–2, 177–80, 182–3, 224–5 Saint Lawrence River, 9–10, 18, 56, 147, 165 Sarkozy, Nicholas, 16 schools: deconfessionalization, 4, 15, 136, 194, 197; English­ language, 103, 194; “Ethics and Culture” course, 136; French­ language, 103, 194; and religious symbols, 21, 190, 195–7, 199– 200, 209, 211 Scott, Joan Wallach, 47 Second Vatican Ecumenical Council (Vatican II), 12, 34, 55, 135, 145–6, 154 secularization, 46, 155, 241, 254, 256–7; scholarship about, 5, 238, 246. See also laïcité; Quiet Revolution separatist movement, 1889, 192. See also referendum; sovereignty sermon, 51, 70; in French, 36; video sermons (see social media). See also homily services (Christian): attendance at, 57, 72, 132, 135, 143, 156, 175, 177–8, 180–3, 224; Mass, 57–8,

61–2, 64–6, 68, 135, 150, 155, 224 sexual abuse, 135 shamanism, 218, 223, 227–9, 232–3 shrines, 22, 156–62, 164–85. See also healing; pilgrimage Sikhs, 31, 183–4, 196, 201, 299n33 singing, 40, 64–6, 75, 77–8, 82, 84–5, 90–1, 93, 131, 229; songs, 40, 64, 66, 79, 82, 88–96, 131 social justice, 12 social media, 229; Facebook, 49, 228–9; and prayers, 229; and video sermons, 229; websites, 35–6, 46, 48–9, 220, 228–9. See also identity formation; online sociality (religious), 25, 216, 222, 229–30, 232 Somerville, Margaret, 245, 247, 249–50 soteriology, 239, 252 sovereignty, 188–90, 193, 240, 252 Spanish (Latinos), 35, 39–40; Spanish and Portuguese congre­ gation, 104, 119, 122 Spiritual Church of Healing (sch), 215–33 spiritual tourism, 167, 184 spiritualism and spiritualists, 24, 215–26, 229–30, 232–3, 240, 254 spirituality: and authenticity, 5, 227; Indigenous, 76, 82, 88,94, 96–7, 186, 224–6; versus “reli­ gion,” 24, 182, 185, 215–16, 218, 221, 223–4, 231–2 234, 240

Index sports: and Muslim girls and women, 196–8 Stark, Rodney, 23, 217, 240–2 “superstitions”: pre­1960s, 133; and Jesuit Relations, 83 Supreme Court of Canada, 190, 196 Swedenborgianism, 217 symbols (religious), 44, 156–7, 187–94, 196, 198, 202–4, 209, 255. See also Charter of Quebec Values; discrimination Taylor, Charles, 4–5, 16–17, 201–2, 204–5, 231, 252 technology: dependence on, 245, 251; as recruiting tool for Pentecostal churches, 43; and transhumanism, 235–6, 238, 240, 249, 252. See also biotechnology technophilia, 25, 237 techno­utopianism, 236–7 tourism and tourists, 21, 129, 135, 178, 183 traditionalism, 9,18, 107, 135, 150 trance: and healing, 230. See also spiritualism and spiritualists transcendence, 38, 242, 248–50 transcendentalism, 217 transformation: personal, 225–7, 232, 250; religious, 56, 77, 105, 246 transhumanism, 24–5, 235–40, 242–5, 247–53; “democratic transhumanism,” 236

355

transnationalism: and experiences, 25, 41, 43, 48, 51, 53; and net­ works, 25, 44, 48, 53; and Pentecostalism, 22–3, 33, 41, 43–4, 48, 51, 53 Trudeau, Pierre Elliott, 192 Tunisia, 190 Twain, Mark, 20 ultramontane Catholicism, 10, 31, 241 United States: comparisons to Canada/Quebec, 31, 223–4, 232; “lived religion,” 7, 256; religious minorities, 255; separation of church and state, 254 university: chairs, 20; Concordia University, 207; education, 57, 68, 103; University of Laval, 13; University of Regina, 92 urban, 11, 18, 24–5, 73, 77, 81, 90, 94, 132, 134–6, 140, 154, 216, 221, 223. See also Montreal veil. See hijab; niqab vestry (Catholic), 57, 59–62, 68, 73 village. See rural violence (religious), 203 Virgin Mary: childhood, 162; devo­ tions to, 165, 171, 220. See also Mary Vorilhon, Claude. See Rael vow (Catholic), 132–3, 170, 173, 175

356

Index

war: Algerian war of independence, 190; Dominican Republic of Congo, 45; Iraq, 119; Syria, 146 Waters, Brent, 247, 250–2 weddings, 41–4, 58, 105. See also marriage Weil, Kathleen, 190, 200 Wicca, 218, 227–9, 233 windows (church), 20, 176 women: Catholic women and devo­ tional practices, 55, 61–8, 71–4, 144–5, 147, 162; and ordination (see clergy: and women); Jewish women, 103, 108–9, 111–14, 117–19; Movement of Christian

Women (Mouvement des Femmes Chrétiennes), 61, 63, 72; Muslim women, 187–8, 198–211; and spiritualism, 218–19; women’s advancement, 205, 208. See also gender World Transhumanist Association, 235 yogic practices, 232; spiritualities, 218, 224, 232–3 youth: African, 22, 49, 53; Indigenous (see Indigenous peoples: youth); Muslim, 197–8; Pentecostal, 36, 43, 47–8, 51; sports, 198