Rio Gangsters Call Themselves God's 'Soldiers of Crime'

When law enforcement authorities in Rio de Janeiro confiscate bricks of cocaine or bundles of marijuana, they may uncover them marked with an emblem that bears profound symbolism—the Star of David. This insignia, however, is not indicative of Judaic faith but aligns with the Pentecostal Christian conviction that the restoration of Jews to Israel predicates the eventual Second Coming of Christ.

This branding is linked to the Pure Third Command, one of Rio’s most formidable criminal syndicates, notorious for vanishing its adversaries and brandishing an intense commitment to evangelical Christianity. The gang commandeered a cluster of five favelas in the northern reaches of the metropolis—an area now referred to as the Israel Complex—following what one of its leaders perceived as a divine revelation, notes theologian Vivian Costa, author of Evangelical Drug Dealers.

Costa elaborates that these gang members regard themselves as "soldiers of crime," designating Jesus as the sovereign proprietor of the territories under their iron grip. This phenomenon has sparked controversial monikers, such as "Narco-Pentecostals," to describe this peculiar fusion of faith and lawlessness.

A Gospel Amid Guns

One individual who embodies the crossroads of criminality and religion—albeit sequentially rather than concurrently—is Pastor Diego Nascimento. His journey toward faith began when a gangster wielding a firearm shared the message of the gospel with him.

It’s hard to reconcile the image of this 42-year-old Wesleyan Methodist pastor, characterized by a youthful visage, a radiant smile, and pronounced dimples, with his former life. Nascimento was once entrenched in the infamous Red Command crime syndicate, orchestrating illicit activities in Vila Kennedy, a favela infamous for its struggles.

Even four years of incarceration for drug trafficking failed to deter his criminal endeavors. It wasn’t until his descent into crack cocaine addiction that his standing within the gang eroded.

“I lost my family and nearly all semblance of stability. For almost a year, I lived on the streets, resorting to pawning household items for another hit,” he confesses.

At his lowest ebb, a prominent local drug lord summoned him with an unexpected proclamation.

“He preached to me, insisting there was an escape—a path of redemption through accepting Jesus,” Nascimento recalls. That singular encounter set him on a transformative journey toward the ministry.

Today, Pastor Nascimento remains engaged with individuals caught in the throes of crime, channeling his efforts into prison ministries. His mission is to guide others toward the same redemptive path he traversed. Despite his own conversion experience, he firmly rejects the notion of religiously motivated criminals.

“I cannot view them as evangelical believers,” he asserts. “They tread a misguided path, harboring a superficial reverence for God as their presumed protector. True adherence to Jesus and biblical principles is incompatible with a life of drug dealing.”

Faith Weaponized

Evangelical Christianity, projected to eclipse Catholicism as Brazil’s dominant faith by decade’s end, has resonated profoundly within gang-controlled favelas. However, this spiritual influence has been co-opted by some criminal groups as a tool for dominion.

Sociologist Christina Vital, affiliated with Rio's Fluminense Federal University, describes the plight of impoverished communities under the shadow of such syndicates. She characterizes this phenomenon as a siege, wherein religious freedoms are systematically curtailed.

“In the Israel Complex, alternative faith practices are silenced. Public expression of non-Christian beliefs is perilously restricted, making this a palpable case of religious intolerance,” Vital explains.

Afro-Brazilian traditions, such as Umbanda and Candomblé, have borne the brunt of this oppression. Shrines and worship spaces have been shuttered across neighborhoods, their walls often defaced with proclamations like, “Jesus is the Lord of this place.”

Dr. Rita Salim, who leads Rio’s Department for Racial and Intolerance Crimes, emphasizes the disproportionate impact of these threats.

“When criminal organizations orchestrate such attacks, their reach extends far beyond individuals, instilling a pervasive fear throughout entire communities,” Salim remarks. Arrest warrants have even been issued for crime bosses accused of targeting Afro-Brazilian temples.

A New Crusade

Marcio de Jagun, Rio’s Religious Diversity coordinator and a high priest of the Candomblé faith, likens the escalating attacks to a modern-day crusade.

“This isn’t just about religious persecution. It’s a blend of racial and spiritual prejudice, cloaked in the guise of purging evil in God’s name,” he explains.

Theologian Vivian Costa contextualizes the nexus between crime and spirituality within Brazil’s historical framework. Historically, gangsters sought divine protection through Afro-Brazilian deities and Catholic saints.

“If you examine the origins of the Red Command or the Third Command, Afro-Brazilian religions and Catholicism were integral. Their imagery—Saint George, the deity Ògún, crucifixes, candles—has always been present,” Costa says.

Thus, she critiques the term "Narco-Pentecostalism" as reductive, favoring “Narco-Religiosity” to encapsulate the complex interplay between faith and crime.

Regardless of the nomenclature, the fusion of religion and criminality undermines a constitutional right fundamental to Brazil’s ethos—freedom of worship. For those ensnared within these volatile enclaves, the convergence of piety and violence continues to erode both spiritual and societal sanctity.