Before dawn even begins to break in Brazil, evangelical bishop Bruno Leonardo uploads a video to YouTube in which he preaches and prays for his followers. Within hours, it typically racks up a couple of million views and hundreds of thousands of comments. Those numbers offer a glimpse of the enormous scale of the evangelical media universe in this deeply religious country.
The preacher kicked off this week with a message encouraging believers to maintain faith in themselves and cast aside anguish, sadness, anxiety and depression. Bruno Leonardo, who sports a trademark pompadour and records his videos against an unremarkable domestic backdrop, has 76 million subscribers on his YouTube channel — more than any other evangelical figure in Brazil.
Before signing off, he extends an invitation: “I ask my sheep to visit my Instagram profile.” There, followers can see this servant of God taking part in a recent food distribution drive for 3,000 families in a needy city in the state of Bahia. He also announces an upcoming in-person gathering at a stadium in Fortaleza.
A channel-surfing tour through the television stations and YouTube channels of some of Brazil’s leading pastors, female pastors and neo-Pentecostal churches reveals a remarkably varied menu catering to every type of believer. It is a fast-growing community eagerly courted by both politicians and businesses.
At midday, Bishop Jadson Santos hosts a program on the official channel of the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God, a denomination with power, wealth, a monumental headquarters modeled on Solomon’s Temple and even its own political party, the Republicanos (Republicans).
Pastor Santos reviews the natural disasters of recent days, the earthquakes in Colombia and Indonesia, the eruption of Mount Etna in Italy, and a typhoon in China, before warning viewers that “this is not yet the apocalypse.” He nevertheless urges believers to decide where they want to “spend eternity” and to “pray for those who have fallen into sin.”
He then turns to the testimonies that are central to evangelical proselytizing. A young couple takes the stage, and the woman explains how their lives changed after they embraced the faith. Gone are the days of extreme poverty and the humiliation of having to ask for food. They managed to turn their lives around and now want for nothing, neither for themselves nor for their son. They run a large hair salon, she says, because “the Lord planned it all.” It is a powerful message for anyone among Brazil’s 50 million poor.
For prosperity theology, the driving force behind Latin America’s transformation from a predominantly Catholic region into an increasingly evangelical one, getting rich is no longer a sin but a virtue. Putting one’s finances in order and prospering is framed as a way of fulfilling God’s divine plan.
“Since I gave my soul to Jesus four years ago, I earn in one month what I used to make in three years,” a convert who has prospered in the real-estate business says on the program. The next couple says they managed to buy a beach apartment as an investment…
Brazil offers a religious option for virtually every audience imaginable. The Bola de Neve (Snowball) Church stands in stark contrast to the pious aesthetics of the Universal Church. Its pastors are easy to spot: they preach from preach from a surfboard used as an altar, wear beach T-shirts and are accompanied by bands with electric guitars. “This Church will never die of boredom,” one of the preachers said last Sunday.
At that service, which can be followed on YouTube like those of hundreds of other congregations, there was time to pray for a couple on the verge of separation, to try to “recruit workers to serve the Lord,” to announce a women’s vigil, a baptism day and an upcoming weekend retreat devoted to God and running. For Bola de Neve, group running can also be a path to saving souls.
After three hours of sermons, testimonies and rock-infused worship music, the pastor mentions animal sacrifices from 3,000 years ago before adding: “I’m not asking for money, I’m only teaching spiritual principles.” He then reminds the congregation that “the Lord deserves our best” and that tithes can be placed in the traditional collection boxes or paid by credit card, debit card or QR code.
Combative female preachers
In this universe, QR codes are used to download apps offering annotated versions of the Bible, find the nearest church of a given denomination or navigate seamlessly among the social media profiles of these digital apostles.
Although men clearly dominate the scene, ministry is sometimes a joint endeavor, shared by married couples. Among female voices, one of the most prominent lately has been Pastor Helena Raquel, who shook Brazil’s evangelical community in May and became national news.
At a missionary conference, she publicly denounced pastors who, when approached by victims of gender-based violence, advise them to pray for their abusers and remain silent to avoid causing a scandal. Her call to break that silence and challenge the taboo, delivered with the same force she and her colleagues bring to the pulpit, landed like a bombshell and quickly went viral. The preacher has since made it her mission to promote Christian women’s leadership while writing and selling books.
The morning program on Rede Gospel, the television network of the Renascer Church, would look much like that of any mainstream channel were it not for the religious content and the presence of three men beside founder and host Bishop Estevam Hernandes who are there to “pray for us.” One quiz question asks: “In which city did people try to kill Jesus by throwing him off a cliff?” (Answer: Nazareth, according to Luke 4:29.) Viewers can also hear stories of redemption and learn about a giveaway for a fruit juicer. All of it is interspersed with musical performances featuring Christian ballads reminiscent of MTV-style music videos.
Every day, as evening falls in Brazil, the bishop with 76 million YouTube subscribers posts a new video, faithful to his habit of “starting the day in prayer and ending it giving thanks.” At midnight he uploads a third. All of them carry the same suggestion: “Share this prayer with your contacts.”
Each day, as evening falls in Brazil, the bishop with 76 million YouTube followers posts a new video, true to his habit of “starting the day praying and ending it giving thanks.” At midnight, he will publish a third. All of them begin with the same prompt: “Send this message to your contacts.”
And so, click by click, new internet users and new viewers join the flock.
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