Aliança! Aliança! That’s the word the hooded young men wielding guns kept saying. How did they know that’s who we were, I wondered? We were the Aliança de Batistas do Brasil returning to Recife from the assembly in Salvador. How could these strangers know that?
The journey is 14 hours by bus, and the group had boarded the bus at 10 p.m. expecting to pass most of the night attempting to sleep. Instead thieves blocked the road with debris, and ambushed the bus. The robbers threatened the children, young adults, adults and senior adults with a pistol and rifle.
Seeking anything of value, they absconded with wedding rings, earrings, wallets, watches, cash and cell phones from the church members and the members of the orchestra from the Alto da Mina favela. Frustrated that the loot was so paltry, they rummaged through bags looking for more. One grabbed a case asking what was inside. “A violin,” offered Pastor Paulo. The robbers, unfamiliar with the instrument, took two of the maestro’s prize violins worth thousands of dollars.
The maestro is Israel de França, who spent 25 years in Spain, where he played in the City Orchestra of Granada. Recently he took personal leave from the orchestra to return to his home in Olinda — the community that nurtured him as a child. Back in Brazil he has experienced the truth in the wisdom of Mahatma Gandhi: “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.” For less than a year he has been teaching children and youth in the favela to play the violin, cello and bass. The trip to the Aliança de Batistas do Brasil was their first performance away from home.
The concert that evening was flawlessly performed. Poised, confident and proud, the children and youth of the impoverished favela demonstrated their musical accomplishments with precision and beauty. Not only had they learned to play the hymn tunes — Amazing Grace, Nearer My God to Thee, Abide With Me and Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee — they had also learned the words and messages of these hymns that instill hope and peace.
The bandits left the bus and the group was in shock. One gentleman with a history of a heart condition required CPR, children were crying, and a grandmother had curled up into a fetal position non-responsive.
Then the most beautiful acts of love occurred. The five ministers on the bus, along with the maestro, tenderly and lovingly held, caressed, kissed and calmed the traumatized and weary pilgrims. Numerous people asked me if I were okay: “Tu do bem? — Are you okay?” Everyone, who moments before were violently victimized, now were enfolded in loving embrace.
As soon as we could manage to move, the bus began to make its way to the police station where we spent hours completing police reports, which no one anticipated would be taken seriously. Instead of patrolling, those on federal salaries were inside the station napping. The authorities immediately knew where the incident had occurred. Robberies happen on that portion of the highway, they admitted. Even at the police station the group did not feel safe. Off the bus, the shock morphed into anger and grief. Tears. More hugs. More weariness.
I turned to Bruno, who speaks English, and asked him how the bandits knew we were the Aliança? And why did they keep saying it over and over? Bruno grinned. Aliança in Portuguese also means “ring,” he said.
That evening thugs may have made away with our rings of silver and gold on that isolated stretch of highway, but the “ring” of love they did not take away. The circle of love of the community remained not only unbroken, but also stronger.
I was reminded of a song the college group I accompanied for a dozen years used to close every meeting:
We are a circle, and God is the center
A beautiful circle that anyone can enter.
And all you have to do is love,
All you have to do is love.
We are a circle, and God is the center
All through the summer and even in the winter.
And all you have to do is love,
All you have to do is love.
We are a circle,
and God fills our circle with love.
We left the station driving north in the light of a new day; some people sleeping, some reflecting. We passed a law enforcement station — one of many that dot the highway. The sign read in all capital letters MINISTERIO DE JUSTIÇIA. On the sign, the letter “A” at the end of the word “JUSTIÇIA” was dangling, signaling the law enforcement and justice system is broken. It is broken not only in Brazil but also in the United States and around the world. Those who are the most vulnerable in our justice systems are the poor and persons of color. And I happened to be with them that evening on the bus.
As people of faith, we must not only profess our love for all, we must also wrap our arms of love around all — especially the most vulnerable in our world, those who are traumatized and wounded by violence. However, love is not enough. Without justice the circle of love is threatened and vulnerable. We are called to love and justice. Without justice, love cannot be fully realized. Without love, justice will remain denied.
That awful night on the bus, the robbers absconded with the class ring I have worn for 40 years. What they gave me is solidarity and a story I now share with the most vulnerable. We are a circle of love.
