Blessed by Bullets and Bibles: Narco-Pentecostalism on the rise

The neon Star of David cuts through Rio's night sky like a fever dream. Perched atop a water tower in the Complexo de Israel – five interconnected favelas near the city's international airport – it's a brazen declaration that this is holy ground. But the divine authority here doesn't come from any traditional church. It flows from the barrel of an AK-47 held by a drug lord who calls himself a pastor.

Welcome to the surreal world of narco-Pentecostalism, where Brazil's most violent criminals have found God – and decided He's on their side.

When Faith Gets Weaponised

Álvaro Malaquias Santa Rosa, better known as "Peixão" (Big Fish), rules his corner of Rio like a biblical king. Since seizing control of these communities in 2016, the TCP (Terceiro Comando Puro) leader has transformed his territory into a twisted theocracy. Israeli flags flutter from rooftops, psalms are spray-painted on alley walls, and his foot soldiers – the self-proclaimed "Army of the Living God" – patrol with rifles engraved "Jesus is Lord."

This isn't just criminal posturing. Police raids on Peixão's hideouts have uncovered luxury pools flanked by murals of ancient Jerusalem, complete with Old Testament verses. In one lookout post, a transparent case displays an open Bible turned to Psalm 140: "Rescue me, O Lord, from evil men… protect me from men of violence." The irony is lost on no one.

But the gang's divine mission has a dark edge. Under Peixão's rule, Afro-Brazilian religious temples have been systematically destroyed. Umbanda and Candomblé practitioners – followers of faiths with deep roots in Brazil's Black communities – have been harassed, driven out, or worse. Their shrines smashed, their priests expelled, all "in the name of Jesus."

The Evangelical Explosion

To understand how we got here, you need to grasp the seismic shift that's been reshaping Brazil. Once the world's largest Catholic country, Brazil has witnessed an evangelical revolution. In 1980, only 6-7% of Brazilians identified as evangelical Protestant. Today, that figure has exploded to around 30%, while the Catholic majority has shrunk to about 50%.

This transformation has been most pronounced in the margins – the sprawling favelas and impoverished suburbs where the state barely exists. Here, Pentecostal churches have filled the void, offering not just spiritual salvation but practical support: helping families deal with unemployment, addiction, and the daily grind of poverty.

The appeal is obvious. Unlike the distant hierarchy of Catholicism, Pentecostal pastors are neighbours and kin, preaching that faith can heal and even prosper the believer. For many, being born again offers a new identity in places long forgotten by public services.

But this evangelical boom hasn't stayed in the prayer halls. By the 2010s, evangelicals held influential positions across Brazilian society – in media, politics, law, and commerce. Some neo-Pentecostal leaders became powerful moguls, blurring the line between ministry and enterprise.

The dark side of this success became clear in May 2023, when authorities uncovered a money laundering scheme in Minas Gerais. A criminal group had used an evangelical church and radio station as fronts to wash 6.7 billion reais (over $1.3 billion USD) of illicit funds over five years. The church was real – broadcasting hymns by day, funneling narco-cash by night.

Gangsters of God

Against this backdrop, something unprecedented began happening in Rio's underworld. Hardened traffickers started adopting Pentecostal identities, turning turf wars into holy wars.

In earlier decades, Rio's gangsters looked to Afro-Brazilian deities for spiritual protection – keeping shrines to orixás, wearing necklaces of saints, visiting terreiro temples to shield themselves from bullets. But as a new generation rose alongside the evangelical boom, many turned away from the old rites.

Today, cocaine packets are stamped with the Star of David – a nod to certain Pentecostal beliefs linking modern Israel to the apocalypse. Gang codewords evoke scripture: one Rio crew dubbed itself the "Bonde de Jesus" (Jesus Crew), while members of a TCP offshoot call themselves Aaron's Troop.

The transformation goes deeper than symbolism. Sociologist Christina Vital, who has spent nearly 30 years studying religion in Rio's ganglands, notes that countless young criminals attend Pentecostal services multiple times a week, hold prayer meetings, and faithfully pay tithes on their illicit earnings.

"We cannot say these are false conversions," Vital explains. These gang members earnestly enact the believer's role – even while selling drugs on the side.

The Theology of Violence

What makes this bizarre dual life possible? Part of the answer lies in the Pentecostal worldview itself, which frames existence as constant spiritual warfare between good and evil, angels and demons.

"The Pentecostal way of seeing the world is, in a way, very close to the way drug traffickers understand the world," Vital observes. For gang members already living in daily war – dodging death, defending territory – this theology of battle resonates deeply.

It allows them to cast their gang as the righteous side and their rivals as agents of evil. One Rio trafficker explained his twisted moral code: "Those I can save, I save, but those who reject mercy, we still have to deal with." He recounted persuading his crew not to execute a traitor, opting instead to shoot the man's hands – crippling but not killing him. He framed this gruesome compromise as Christian compassion: "I try to minimize the barbarity."

Parallel Theocracies

What enables these evangelical drug gangs to thrive isn't just piety – it's the vacuum left by the state. In slums where police patrols are sporadic and government services virtually non-existent, criminal factions have long acted as de facto authorities. Now, with religious legitimacy, they entrench themselves as parallel governors.

In the Complexo de Israel, Peixão has imposed a "Bible-infused doctrine": streets must be kept clean, gang members discouraged from swearing or using drugs, discipline and charity emphasized. He's even sponsored modest welfare for residents – gestures the state never made.

"There's order in the favela," acknowledges Juliana, a local rapper known as Juju Rude, though she's troubled by seeing people "prevented from practicing their faith in the place where they live."

In Belo Horizonte's Cabana do Pai Tomás favela, an evangelical TCP offshoot went beyond trafficking to supply free internet, run charity drives, and offer legal aid services. When police swept through in late 2024, they revealed the gang had laundered an estimated 345 million reais while setting up a sprawling parastatal enterprise.

The Price of Holy Order

Community reactions to this upside-down morality range from cautious praise to weary cynicism. Some residents acknowledge relief in having a devout drug lord – at least he might enforce a no-shooting-on-Sunday rule. There are accounts that evangelical ethics have slightly tempered gang violence in some neighborhoods.

But others see a more ominous trade-off. Instead of random violence, communities face ideological oppression and targeted brutality. Security expert Cecília Olliveira notes that the fusion of religious extremism with Rio's gang violence is deeply disturbing. A holy mandate can make gangsters even more dangerous, convincing them God sanctions their crusades.

When a gang paints "Jesus is in control" on a favela wall, it sends a clear message: challenging the gang is tantamount to defying God.

Democracy Under Siege

The rise of narco-Pentecostalism forces uncomfortable truths about state fragility and social neglect. In these neighborhoods, the rule of law has been supplanted by the gang's interpretation of God's law.

Citizens no longer enjoy the basic right to worship as they choose if an armed "Brother" decides only his brand of Christianity is acceptable. The Brazilian constitution guarantees freedom of religion and secular government, yet in narco-Pentecostal enclaves both principles are under siege.

"Democracy never reached these parts of the country," Olliveira observes. If the spread of narco-Pentecostal warlords continues, it may retreat even further.

Breaking the Spell

The phenomenon lays bare failures of both church and state, exposing how desperate people will cling to any institution – even a violent one – that promises order and identity. It highlights a tragic irony: a faith millions embrace for love and redemption has been twisted into a tool of oppression.

Confronting narco-Pentecostalism will require more than police operations. It demands genuine social justice in the areas that birthed it. As long as extreme inequality and state abandonment persist, charlatans with guns and Bibles will find followers.

Brazil's challenge is proving that the true path of faith – and citizenship – doesn't require bending the knee to a narco-kingdom. Only by reasserting the rule of law and reinvigorating genuine community leadership can the spell of these narco-messiahs be broken.

The stakes couldn't be higher: nothing less than the freedom of Brazil's most vulnerable to worship in peace, and the integrity of a society where neither ballots nor Bibles are dictated by bullets.