True Believers

Brazil has endured a history of political instability and poverty. The belief in divine intervention, common to both Catholicism and the Candomblé, often provide spiritual sustenance to fragile lives. In a sense, the religious history of Europe and Africa came together and formed a third religion in the New World.

Kathleen de Azevedo

The smell of ripening fruit drew me to a little captive. In a cage hanging from a tree, a blackbird nipped at a piece of fresh orange. The ground was covered with split apples and stiff darkened banana peels. Nearby, the Igreja Nosso Senhor do Bonfim in Salvador overlooked the Bahia de Santos. The gold cupola like a crown, reigned over the neighborhood. The squat brick houses lining the hill seemed to carry the cathedral on their shoulders. Just blocks away, stood the houses of the affluent where palm fronds covered the sidewalk from gardeners trimming trees. Broken glass glued to the tops of the walls surrounding these elegant homes, threatened all possible intruders.

Inside Bonfim, a large crowd for Friday Mass spilled into aisles and doorways. I stood in back of the church and scanned the heads, a sea of morena hair, a variety so Brazilian: tight oiled curls, free-flowing waves, straight coarse manes. Black men and women dressed in white, took the empty seats nearest the altar. These seats used to be reserved for the wealthy, but times have changed. Now in spite of the standing-room Mass, the congregation left these seats vacant on purpose. It was hot. The collective murmur of the Glória mingled with the thick flutter of missals. The worshippers in white followed the mass with familiar ease; the white clothes boldly displayed their devotion to Oxalá, the most powerful Yoruban deity of the orixá.

The orixá are worshipped by practitioners of Candomblé, the African-Brazilian religion of Bahia. There are many theories of its origin, but one belief is that mankind sprung from a single ancestor, and some of the descendants achieved divinity which enabled them to control natural forces such as disease, thunder, and the oceans. These ancestors with special powers make up the orixá, and their spiritual energy, or axé, enters their contemporary descendants during a ceremonial trance.

The Catholic Church, the official religion of Brazil, does not officially accept Candomblé. In fact, many Brazilians are embarrassed by its presence. Alfredo Dias Gomes' play and award winning film O Pagador de Promessas (The Payer of Promises), tells of Zé do Burro, a simple and devout man from the country, who has dragged a cross a long distance to fulfill a pledge made to Santa Bárbara. Zé's wish is to place the cross inside the church, but the priest finds out the pilgrim has also prayed to Yansã, Santa Barbara's orixá counterpart, and forbids Zé from entering. The penitent refuses to leave, and as exploitation and street drama swirl around him, he is killed on the steps. Only then does he enter the church, carried Christ-like atop his cross.

Gomes' play illustrates the church's historical resistance and grudging tolerance of Candomblé. The Portuguese settlers brought to Brazil Counter-Reformation Catholicism, which in its efforts to hold back the Protestant sweep of Europe, revitalized saint worship and its mysticism. At the same time, the slaves brought their deities from Angola, the Congo, Ghana and Nigeria. Brazil's expansive area became difficult for the clergy to exert its control over New World Catholics. The power centralized around the latifúndios (large estates) instead of the church, and came under the authority of the patriarch and the guardian saints of his family, instead of the priest.

As a result, the orixá and the saints were honored side by side, each gradually taking on the identity of the other. The official laws forbade the practice of Candomblé, and in an act of resistance that forever affected Brazilian culture, the faithful "hid" their orixá in the identity of the saints, and continued practicing their African religion at will. For example, Oxalá is often portrayed wearing white garments and a silver crown. Oxalá's reputation for his beauty, purity and as the creator of man syncretize him to Jesus Christ/the Lord of Bonfim. When the Portuguese placed O Menino Jesus dressed in a white gown and small imperial crown on their altars, it was as if master and slave ironically spoke in almost the same spiritual tongue.

Historical habits don't survive without present need. Worshippers don't necessary choose between Christ and Oxalá, on the contrary, the two deities are often worshipped together, their divine forces combined. It is a way to "cover your bases" so to speak. Brazil has endured a history of political instability and poverty. The belief in divine intervention, common to both Catholicism and the Candomblé, often provide spiritual sustenance to fragile lives. People can't exist without hope. I was raised Catholic but share a lot of the cynicism of my generation. Witnessing the ambivalent relationship between the Catholic church and the Candomblé, I began to admire the tenacity it takes to sustain faith in lives beset by uncertainty and hardship.

The religious gift shops around Bonfim, which sell crucifixes and rosaries, were overshadowed by efforts outside to sell colorful ribbons, or fitas. Fitas come in a variety of colors, each color representing a particular orixá. As my husband and I got off the bus to come to Mass, small children flew at us, waving ribbons in the wind. Others draped ribbons over my shoulder, enticing me to buy. "Pra você, Oxum," one said handing me a yellow fita. Oxum, daughter of Yemanjá, is the orixá of wealth and of freshwater, as delicate as the bubbling streams and as forceful as the raging waterfalls. Should I be flattered? Dowels heavy with fitas, were propped up on the iron fence surrounding the church and attracted those coming from a distance like bold colorful banners. These ribbons, purveyors of good fortune, are worn around the wrist; the wearer makes three wishes and must let the ribbon break on its own, or risk bad luck. I met a small girl, selling acarajé, wearing two fitas on each wrist and three on her ankle. She explained the matter simply: "I just have so many wishes."

I removed my fita the day after I got it, impatient with its chafing. Since I was raised Catholic, I ignored the warnings of bad luck as superstition, yet wondered later if my subsequent near-mugging had to do with this act. My husband wore his ribbon until it frayed away months later. One of his wishes was for my cousin's husband, a highly educated engineer in Rio, to find a job in a job-scarce Brazil. I wanted so much for this wish to come true, and even tried offering prayers too. Wait. Was I in fact, following the same logic as others at Bonfim by eliciting as many heavenly powers as possible? Not quite. I lost patience with my fita as I tend to lose patience with prayer. Yet faith is about having patience. The patience of many here put me to shame. The ex-voto room at the side of the main church is an example of this faith. This room, sweetened with the resin smell of incense, filled my ears with pleadings and prayers. On the ceiling, hung the ex-votos, molded plastic arms and feet and heads and hearts, translucent and yellow — offered by faithful parishioners whose prayers for cure had been answered. The walls of this chapel were covered with photos and with testimonials on slips of paper thanking Senhor do Bonfim for His miracles. The photos presented heartache fearlessly: pictures of torsos taped by adhesive, skin peeled and raw, car crashes, a drawing of an electrocution and a consequent apparition of a crucifix — evidence that a life had been spared, a note concerning a depressed friend living in São Paulo "the city of stone." As further thanks, people had given away their most prized possessions, now displayed in the small museum: bullets extracted from just-near-the-heart, watches, sports jerseys, keys to cars and houses.

In the U.S., Masses offer prayers for the sick and the dead, but the sense of human travail is not as strong as in Brazil. In America, the envelopes for mission donations may show a hungry child "asking for your help," but the hunger is far-off. The envelope can be tucked away, leaving only the image of earnest eyes peering from the rack in the backs of the pews. Here, suffering is veiled and many do not see sickness graphically because medical advancement hides the wounds. If a family member dies, the body disappears in the flurry of funeral home arrangements. The hymns in American masses are often cheerful; remanents of 60s folk mass tunes crop up as do religious lyrics set to the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber. God is our friend, never vengeful, and the priests do not speak to us sternly. Because life is easier here, U.S. Catholics as a whole have not had to experience the same type of hardship as the Bahians. Hardship for Americans seems distant and often God's charity is taken for granted. All this "ease", however, robs us of experiencing the tension between hope in moments of pain, and joy in its relief.

The portrayal of suffering is prominent in Brazil's churches, but oftentimes, the torment of slavery remains in the periphery. In the cobblestone square of the Pelourinho stands the Igreja Nosso Senhor do Rosário dos Pretos painted in bright porcelain blue. The church was built by blacks for blacks. I stepped into a late afternoon Mass. The congregation clapped and sang to music belting out of an electric organ. A little cat ambled around their feet, gave the corner of the pew a rub, and slipped out the door and through the iron gate. In a courtyard off to the side of the church, I found the shrine of Anastácia Escrava (Anastácia the Slave). The weathered picture painted on tiles showed Anastácia Escrava with her mouth strapped in a muzzle. Small jars of flowers had been set at foot of the picture and small candles burned in her honor. Anastácia, an Angolan princess, was brought to Rio as a slave and became the mistress of her white master. When his wife found out of the affair, she had Anastácia "silenced" with a ceramic disk secured by a leather strap. This form of torture eroded the mouth which led to starvation. Anastácia is sanctified, thought not considered a "saint." In other words, many followers regard her as holy and claim miracles on her behalf, but she has not been canonized by the Catholic church. Nevertheless, Anastácia's attempt to voice her oppression and her martyrdom became an inspiration to other blacks who pay their respects.

To get a sense of the African voice, I needed to step away from the churches and look to the terreiros around Salvador, where Candomblé celebrates black heritage and the vigor of their community. I had mixed feelings about going to a Candomblé ritual. I was warned not to go by one family member. I was encouraged to go by another. There were Candomblé tours for tourists, which conjured up the idea of a ritual-as-show. In the Pelourinho, I was plied with offers to buy tickets to a Candomblé. I refused them all. Then I met a tour guide in one of the church museums, a Bahian. When he spoke of rococo art, his manner was animated, his smile wide and generous. When he spoke of his Salvador — his people — his eyes softened. "Many people think of Candomblé as superstitious and don't take it seriously," he said as he rubbed the three worn-out fitas on his wrist, "but you must think of it as a religion. You don't need to worship it. Just consider it the religion of my people." And so, I went with him and a small group of others, to a
Candomblé ceremony that night.

Golden streetlights glowed over the women carrying grocery bags up the steep hills. From outside, the terreiro, was much like other small red brick homes; a small iron gate opened to a porch where everyone removed their shoes. The larger terreiros have several rooms, with the peji, or altar, being in one room, and the dancing taking place in the adjoining barracão. Many poorer communities have the peji and dancing in one area. This terreiro was one small oblong room. Fringed white crepe paper flags covered the ceiling. The men and women were separated and instructed to sit on the benches alongside two walls, facing each other. Two congo drums stood at one end of the room near the front door. On the other end, the peji was covered with vases of flowers, a statue of the Virgin Mary, a brown bottle of water, ceramic dishes and paper bags of bread. Hidden in every peji are the stones which contained the axé, the spirit of the orixá.

The iaôs, the young women who have been initiated into the religion, the "brides of the gods," greeted each other before the ceremony. They wore white lacy blouses, colorful graceful skirts that swept just above their ankles, and scarves tightly wrapped around their heads, emphasizing the dark bold beauty of their full faces and graceful cheekbones. Three elderly women, the equedes, moved with confidence as they placed their hands on the young women's shoulders, giving advice. The equedes act like priests, supervising and protecting the ceremony.

A large man with strikingly white skin, worked his way through the crowd a bit clumsily, knelt in front of the altar, and covered his face with his hands. Two young men, drummers, set themselves at the congas and their fingers hit the leather, rolling out a rhythm. The three equedes sat together near the drums. One by one, the young iaôs reverently bowed low to the ground at the elders' feet, brought their hands to their lips then with the same hand, stroked their own hair as if anointing themselves. With the same motion, they paid respects to the drums.

With the drums' constant rhythm, the younger women began dancing gently, gracefully lifting their elbows so their arms helped to undulate their ribcages. The tall man rose from his meditation, and started dancing. I recognized him to be the babalorixá, more commonly called the pai de santo, the spiritual leader of the Candomblé. He stamped his feet and lunged forward, hooted and whirled around, his dark loose curls flopping over his eyes and the sweat flinging off his skin. Meanwhile, a young man who had been sitting in the sidelines, began to waver, his eyes half-closed. Suddenly he jolted up. An equede lead him to the floor. He gave another jerk then began spinning, elegantly bent forward and sweeping the air with his curved arm. He stopped, dazed and the old woman gently guided him back to his seat.

The babalorixá stopped dancing and went to one of the young iaôs, took her face into his hands, and chanted a short incantation. Others, including the practitioners sitting in the sidelines, lined up and he cradled their faces and blessed them as well. The pai de santo picked up a small boy and lifted him high. The little one grinned, tickled by the crepe paper fringe on the ceiling.

The iaôs began slipping into trances as if falling asleep, some nodded back resisting, while others let themselves be taken by the persistent drums. People broke out singing samba songs; others made the sign of the cross. Remarkably, the dreamy-eyed danced so gracefully, while trashing and shuddering and sinking down onto their knees. The old equede caught the celebrants before they dropped and eased them down. One of the iaôs, a beautiful lean woman, collapsed with her head falling forward; her turban slipped off, letting loose beautiful thick wavy hair. An old woman gently picked her up, and pulled her locks away from her sweaty neck, then helped her to the altar. The more lucid celebrants looked at each other knowingly and murmured the names of various orixás. The pervasive drums and singing had the strange ability to grow on me, and though I remained un-tranced, I felt cleansed.

The ceremony ended as everyone returned to a waking state. They looked happy, relieved, their faces shiny with sweat. They stroked each other's hair and embraced. As people left the terreiro, the pai de santo stood at the door with the bags of bread and handed each one a roll, a bit like communion. He was gregarious, if not a bit jolly. I wondered what he did during the day when he was not functioning as a pai de santo. Outside, voices coming from the lighted houses on the hill tinged the cool and quiet evening.

The practice of Candomblé and Catholicism varies between Brazilians. Some ignore the African element completely. Others see the African religion as a source of identity, resistance and liberation. In the case of Candomblé, I saw a joy that is a part of worship. The strength and drama of these two religions make the spirituality found in Brazil unique. In a sense, the religious history of Europe and Africa came together and formed a third religion in the New World. The glory of three continents!

No wonder the white of the Eucharist and the white of Oxalá's robe could not help but come together in celebration of misery and hope, enslavement and freedom, and death and resurrection.

Additional Sources:

African Religions of Brazil: Toward a Sociology of the Interpretation of Civilizations by Roger Bastide, The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1960

Divine Inspiration by Phyllis Galembo, University of New Mexico Press, 1993