Every time we walked along the streets of Quebec City, explored the neighborhoods, or drove through the villages up and down the river, we saw churches. Beautiful, towering, prominent, empty churches. It was strange to me, and then interesting, and then unsettling—almost haunting. I wanted to understand it, so I read about Quebec's "Revolution Tranquille" in the 1970s, when the Catholic Church's influence in Quebec fell from pervasive to almost nonexistent. Church programs were turned into government programs, a huge church bureaucracy became government bureaucracy, and the entire character of the province changed overnight. The numbers are almost unbelievable:
• 95 percent of the population went to Mass weekly in the 1950s, but only 5 percent do so today.
• The birth rate went from 40.6 births per 1000 in 1909, to 8.8 in 2023.
• The abortion rate ("voluntary termination of pregnancy") went from 1.4 per 100 births in 1971 to 40.2 in 2002.
• In 2003 (this was the earliest I found numbers for; it was probably higher later) there were 2746 churches in Quebec; by 2022, 713 of them had been demolished, closed, or converted into something else.
I think most people in Quebec aren't bothered by those statistics. They see it as progress, and consider themselves well rid of religion's controlling hand. Obviously I'm not qualified to discuss the ins and outs of Catholic influence in government; I'm sure you could make a case for corruption and overreach and coercion and whatever else. Perhaps church and state were too intertwined, and individual Catholic leaders may well have been as power-hungry and prideful as any politician. But, also obviously, I am sympathetic to the Catholic church, our sister church in Christ, and I think about all the generations of faithful people who built those thousands of churches scattered through every town and every village in Quebec. Surely there were people who kept the faith because they had their own connections to Jesus Christ; people who had many children not because they were "forced" or "intimidated" by the church, but because they loved God and loved their families. People who had generations of religious belief in their blood; who looked for miracles; who served and sacrificed because they chose to put God first. People who would be horrified by what their grandchildren and great-grandchildren have forgotten.
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Je me souviens. It's on every license plate, the T-shirts in the tourist shops, the flags. "I remember." Quebec lives by it. But as I walked by the dark and empty cathedrals, the beautiful old buildings and the ancient city walls, the churches re-purposed into libraries and climbing gyms and circus halls, I just kept thinking, "Do you?" Ask a random Québecois (gross generalization, I know, but this was my experience) what je me souviens refers to, exactly, and they can't even tell you. "Oh, you know, just…the past. Our heritage. Our culture. The old wars. Tout ça."
But yes, even at first glance the Québecois are passionate, almost panicked, about preserving that broad-based "cultural heritage." Before living in Quebec, I knew superficially about the separatist movement and (free-market individualist that I am) had little sympathy for it. Whiny French-speakers, wanting the benefits of being part of a larger nation but none of the compromises. If your French culture is so great, why do you have to coerce people to hang onto it? What are you afraid of? But…having lived there now, I think I have a glimmer of understanding. I'm not trying to make a political commentary—I'm not well-informed enough. There are certainly both fanatics and reasonable people on both sides of that particular political question. But the urge to preserve, to hold on, to remember—I see it now. There is something deep and sacred about preserving a heritage. And in today's world, it doesn't happen—can't happen— without a fight. If someone hadn't deliberately, intentionally, held onto what is "Quebecois" about Quebec, it wouldn't be what it is now. Its uniqueness would have faded into bland conformity. And what a loss that would be! I hate to think of it!
And so, constantly on guard against "assimilation," the Québecois fight for their heritage: their language, their art, their food. I admire some of those efforts, because I agree that it's worth fighting for. And isn't that what I'm doing too, with my children and family? Fiercely planting and watering and nourishing, in a world that wants to constantly uproot and burn? There were always those who wanted the unrestrained freedom of the wilderness, of course, but Quebec as it is today was built by settlers who sought a place to preserve the best of French culture, a place they could distance themselves from the decay they saw creeping into a society ever-more unloosed from its roots. It's so beautiful in Willa Cather's book Shadows on the Rock where she describes a mother trying to pass down to her daughter this awareness; to transmit
something so precious, so intangible; a feeling about life that had come down to her through so many centuries and that she had brought with her across the wastes of obliterating, brutal ocean. The sense of "our way," — that was what she longed to leave with her daughter. She wanted to believe that when she herself was in this rude Canadian earth, life would go on almost unchanged in this room with its dear (and, to her, beautiful) objets; that the proprieties would be observed, all the little shades of feeling which make the common fine. The individuality, the character, of M. Auclair's house, though it appeared to be made up of wood and cloth and glass and a little silver, was really made of very fine moral qualities in two women: the mother's unswerving fidelity to certain traditions, and the daughter's loyalty to her mother's wish.
It wasn't all for nothing, I suppose—in some ways the Quebecois have clung so tightly to their roots that they're more French than the French; their language closer to the Old French, their recipes harking back to the foods their ancestors used. It can come across as almost desperate, and it can feel exclusionary too—you wouldn't believe the laws about French language in everything from billboards to menus to mailed leaflets, let alone schools and government—right down to percentages and color and font size to ensure French remains dominant in every way. But could the battle be won with any less commitment? I don't know.
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The Quebecois fixation on je me souviens makes it all the more mystifying to me that out of that fierce determination to remember and hold on, Quebec has somehow managed to obliterate the very memory that would best retain their children and their culture—the memory of "what great things the Lord hath done for us." And in forgetting that, the people have become so distant from their beginnings that they do not even, themselves, know who they once were—let alone who they are now.
It's terrifying, because it could happen in an instant. In a generation. You forget God and you lose yourself and you end up back wandering a wilderness your grandparents already fought their way out of. How can I get my children to remember? How can I hold onto the past without discounting that some things must change and grow? How to avoid holding onto something so tight you choke the life out of it?
When we had our back-to-school dinner in September, I knew immediately our theme for the year had to be "Je me souviens." It was an easy choice because we knew this experience was going to be life-changing for our family and I wanted us to remember every bit of it we could, and embrace all that was good about this temporary adopted home. I made Québecois dishes, Fèves au lard and Soupe aux Pois and Tourtiére and Tarte au sirop d’érable. I gave them little journals to write their memories in. But I also, then and afterwards, have tried so hard to convey to my kids the importance of remembering the right things. I love this quote by Elder Gong:
Have you ever thought of yourself as your own living book of remembrance—reflecting what and how you choose to remember?
I told them how I wanted them to remember their time in Quebec not just by the collection of interesting experiences they had, but because they were changed by it; because of who they had become there. I wanted them to choose to remember, to write in their hearts, the good things and the blessings and the miracles. And I can't make them do this, because every person must choose it for himself, but above all, I want them to remember what Jesus Christ has done for them personally, and for their ancestors, and for the whole world—the Québecois along with everyone else. That's what I want them to hold onto. That's the souvenir (you can see the French root in that word) I want them to value most.
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Sam painted the picture at the top of this post (I'm putting it here again so you can see it). He said he didn't mean it to be symbolic at first; he was just trying to capture the architecture and the weight of history you feel walking in these old streets with smooth paving stones under your feet and dark towering church spires reaching up overhead. But as he kept painting the church he couldn't make it any other way. This place that was supposed to be the sacred center of the community has gone empty and silent. And the streets are so beautiful around it, so vibrant and interesting you almost can forget what's missing at the center. You might even forget to look up and see where that spire is pointing, or realize that the sky has gone dark above you. The city is radiant, but there's a hollowness there, too, a shadow of something past.
I think that darkness and emptiness was also what made me feel such a surprising fierce love for the churches that were left, the working churches. The darkness made those spots of light even brighter by comparison. Of course this is all in addition to my actual church community, which was living and growing and by far the biggest influence on me. I have never been more grateful for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints than I was in Québec. But even outside of that, Eglise St. Roch, down the hill from our house, still rang its bells every day at noon and six, and I quickly developed a routine of stopping what I was doing to say a little prayer when I heard them ring. (I miss those bells now!) After much searching, I finally found out when they celebrated Mass (Tuesdays at noon) and then I tried to attend almost every week. I didn't understand many of the words, or know the songs, and I just clumsily tried to follow what everyone else did when they stood and sat and answered in chorus. But I felt like that group of twenty or so believers, mostly elderly, sitting one-to-a-pew in the vast echoing cathedral space, were my beloved brothers and sisters and fellow-saints. That church felt like a temple to me. When I couldn't go to our temple (far away in Montreal), I went to Saint-Roch or Notre-Dame-de-Quebec or Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, and I felt peace and comfort and joy right in amidst the foreignness of the rituals themselves. I suppose it was the Holy Spirit there, nestling snugly into whatever spaces were remotely willing to let Him stay.
Once through my open bedroom doors I heard the church bells in Saint-Jean-Baptiste start ringing unexpectedly—a different sound than the Saint-Roch bells, clearer and nearer—and I felt a sudden inexplicable excitement. The neighborhood Facebook page even took note of it, with a flurry of posts like "It must have been ten years since I heard those bells!" and "What's happening? It was nice to hear the bells again today!" But a few days later there was a notice on the church door, right in front of where we parked our van, saying that the church had been sold to the city of Quebec and would be "desacralized" presently. Sam and I joked that the bell-ringing had probably just been the potential buyers wandering through the church, kicking the tires to see if everything worked.
Once when I was standing there, looking at all the church towers, I felt a sudden flash of certainty, almost in these words: "Jesus Christ has not forgotten the people of Quebec. And someday, all these church bells will ring again, and the people will sing praises to their God." It reminded me, forcefully, that God isn't just sitting around weeping (though He does weep) for his lost children. He is actively working and moving heaven and earth to remind them, reclaim them, and bring them back. We saw His missionaries engaged in that work before our very eyes. And I can be part of that work too! Helping my children, and everyone around me, remember our loving, powerful, ever-present God.
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And now, just for fun, (whose fun? mine!) a small and incomplete survey of some of the churches I liked in Quebec. First, Église de Sainte-Jean-Baptiste, "our" church on Rue-Saint-Jean, of course! I have millions of pictures of it (and our van in front of it), but I liked this picture I found from above that shows how big it really is! It's hard to get a sense of the whole thing from any of my pictures. You have to come at it sideways from any number of narrow streets, and there's never a real vantage point, but it dominates the hillside from below, and even far away from the city you can see the spire.
We walked there every day, sometimes multiple times, driving in and out, and I will always be grateful that the parish still owned it while we were there, so they were able to rent us our parking place! It is sold to the city now, apparently, to be renovated (over several years and at a cost of millions of dollars) into some kind of community space. I suppose I'm glad it will be open again in any capacity, so people can go inside. But if we ever go back it will be "our" church no longer!
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There were lots of churches I liked looking at from our balcony. Église Saint-Roch was one of them, but it's really hard to find. Even when the bells were ringing and already knowing what to look for, I sometimes would lose track of where it was!
On the left you can see the two bell towers. And on the right is the little spire on the other side of the church. It's a pretty big building! I thought it was two different churches for a while.
It always looked really pretty catching the evening light.
Even prettier when you were actually down on the street next to it!
Here's what Saint-Roch looks like inside. Huge!
Pretty stained glass!
Looking down the street on the tiny-spire side of the church
And a bonus video of the bells ringing before Mass!
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This two-spire church was maybe the most beautiful and distinctive one we could see from our balcony. It took me a long time to figure out where and what it was, because it's not a church anymore so it doesn't have a facebook page or anything! Finally I figured out it was Église Saint-Charles de Limoilou. It just has some business inside it. I couldn't even go in. But it still dominates the street and neighborhood around it!
Such a pretty neighborhood down there in Limoilou.
I love the twin spires!
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Just up the street from Saint-Charles, and visible near it from the balcony, is this green-roofed church. It was even harder to find than Saint-Charles! On the map it's labeled "La Fabrique Notre-Dame de Roc" (The Notre-Dame de Roc Factory??) with this vague and useless explanation: "La Fabrique Notre-Dame de Roc is a historic establishment in Québec, QC that offers a unique blend of cultural experiences and community engagement. With a focus on preserving local heritage and fostering creativity, this venue provides a space for events, workshops, and gatherings that celebrate art and tradition."
There's a good view of it right at the end of the block, down Côte Sainte-Genevieve.
And here it is up close. I love the hexagon windows!
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I count Maison Mère-Mallet as a church even though it wasn't really ever one. It has such a beautiful steeple, and it was a convent, so I think it counts! I love the thought of the "Sisters of Charity"—it sounds just like our Relief Society!
The part of the building with the spire is a beautiful chapel—I saw pictures of it online but never actually got to go inside. That part is all closed off now, part of the social services building, and the chapel is gone too for all I know, but I so love that delicate, lacy-looking spire! The thrift store we liked going to and where we got our ice skates is on the bottom left of the building from this view. There's a donation drop-chute where we dropped off some clothes and things a couple times, and a soup kitchen on that side too.
It's so tiny and brave in among all the other buildings around it.
From the other side, looking back toward our house
This was the only time I ever saw that little chapel window lit up!
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Église Saint-Matthew, now the Bibliothèque Claire-Martin, I've posted lots of pictures of before. My favorite part is the cemetery behind it.
But the stained glass inside is really pretty too.
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Notre-Dame-des-Victoires
I have a fondness for Notre-Dame-des-Victoires for two reasons. One, it's the most full church I ever saw for services! It's in a tourist area and when I was there, most of the people were English-speaking visitors (including me, I guess!). Two, when Mass here ended up being cancelled because of a marathon taking place outside, As everyone got up and started filing out, I heard some lady say exasperatedly to her husband in English, "…and just when I thought we'd beaten the devil!" Hahaha. So good.
Oh, a third reason is that they have these tiny little balls of bread called "Little Breads of Saint Genevieve" that they make every year in January on Saint-Genevieve's day, and then they hand them out in little bags all year and they're supposed to bring healing to the one who receives them. ("Not to eat!" they say prominently on the bags. Just to look at, or carry, I guess. Haha!)
This is the beautiful Monastère des Augustines, right behind the Hôtel-Dieu (still a working hospital, which these Augustinian sisters also founded). The first sisters came to Quebec in 1639! This monastery (I don't know why it isn't a convent, if it's sisters?) is a retreat/spa/hotel now, although there are still some sisters living there. It's a strange compromise, I think, but I guess it allows them to keep it open and preserve the place…it would be interesting to stay there! Some of their retreats are held in silence and that sounds wonderful, really. :) Again though, it is interesting to see so many people seeking the type of peace and calm of "spirituality"…without wanting to seek out the actual Holy Spirit by following Jesus Christ.
(This is the Hôtel-Dieu)
Beautiful grounds
I love this old picture of the place. It looks so peaceful.
It's still peaceful!
(Bonus: I also love this picture of two nuns skating together!)
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I never went in (it was only open on Sundays during our church), but I just love this Wesleyan church because it's always popping up between buildings. It's so pretty.
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I loved seeing that bell tower above the roofs all year long.
And I like the thin cross on top of the bell tower!
This church is the oldest one in North America, and because it's special, it has a "Holy Door" you can visit.
Holy Doors symbolize a passage between what one leaves behind to what one wishes to walk toward. There are six other such Doors around the world: four are in Rome.
In 2024 it was an anniversary year (350 years since the foundation of the Quebec diocese) so the Holy Door was open and you could go through it. We didn't, but we saw it!
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It's amazing that these are just a few of the churches close to where we lived, ones we happened to be able to visit or see often. But it doesn't even scratch the surface of all the churches there are just in the city! According to the Quebec City website, there are "one basilica, 2 cathedrals including a basilica-cathedral, 130 churches and 20 chapels including 10 conventual."
But here, of course, is my favorite church in Quebec!
Rumor has it that since the church already owns all this land around the church, if Quebec City ever gets a temple, it will be built here! Hasten the day.
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