Religion and rock harmonize at Metanóia chapel, part of a growing evangelical movement that subverts Brazilian stereotypes of Catholicism and favela violence

Of the many macabre ways in which the Metanóia chapel differs from its counterparts around the world, perhaps the most revealing is its noticeboard.



As well as the usual updates on services, baptisms and weddings, it includes a host of blood-curdling advertisements for upcoming events.



“Night of the Massacre”, “Into the Infernal” and “Blood Fest” scream the headlines that might, at first sight, leave a visitor to a Catholic chapel alarmed or, at least, perplexed.



Given the chapel’s location in Maré – a huge favela complex in Rio de Janeiro that is so difficult for the authorities to control that it was recently occupied by the Brazilian military – some might wrongly assume the signs refer to conflict between police and gangs.

In fact, they are gig notices that testify to a small but growing heavy metal evangelical movement that is upturning Brazilian stereotypes of Catholicism, samba and favela violence.

Metanóia, a second-floor church that attracts a small but dedicated group of followers, is testimony to the diversity and complexity of Brazil’s pick ‘n’ mix culture.

The setting is studiously gothic. In one corner, a skeletal grim reaper peers out from an open coffin. In another, a skull is chained above a dusty Bible. The walls are decorated with spiders, bats and saw blades. Black crucifixes dangle from the ceiling. On the altar, between a tabernacle and a sword, sits a goat skull pierced by a jeweled dagger. Behind it, a giant banner declares, “Jesus Christ is Lord of the Underground.”

The message is underscored by the founding pastor Enok Galvão. “Here in the underground, in our own way, we welcome God into our hearts,” the tattooed preacher declares to his congregation, who raise their fists to the heavens and declare, “Praise be to the Lord.”

Once his sermon is over, the music – and the moshing – begins. Four bands, ranging from soft evangelical rock to hardcore Christian death metal, take the mood as far from a traditional church choir as can be imagined.

One of the vocalists Joab Farias, a bank employee with a long beard and a black ear stud, specialises in the guttural growls of death metal.

“To me it’s really natural. I see no reason not to use this kind of voice for worship,” he explains. “Music is a realm of complete freedom.”

Many of the congregants are dressed in the uniform of metal fans the world over: beards, tattoos and black band T-shirts. Their enthusiasm is infectious.

One of the older members, José-Carlos Ribeira spoke with the excitement of a teenager as he recalled a recent 10-hour trip to São Paulo to see a Dave Gilmour concert. “I waited decades to see him,” he grinned. “For me, rock came first and then religion. Enok took eight years to convert me. Now Jesus is the most important thing in my life.”

Everton de Mendonça – a bearded musician with a T-shirt bearing the image of a knife through a tiger’s skull – said he has always been a Christian, but he felt excluded at traditional churches because of his appearance. At Metanónia, he has found a home. “Since my teens, I liked rock and Jesus. Here I can finally put them together.”

For their tattooed preacher, the medium is simply a means for the message.

“Yes, it’s possible to have sacred heavy metal. The important thing is to do it for God,” says Galvão

“The essence of God’s word are the same as any other church. The differences are just stylistic and cultural. We put the message of God in the music, which is a very powerful tool.”

Galvão said he was a heavy drug user in the 1970s but subsequently found God and then decided to use rock to spread the word to people who were excluded from mainstream religions. Much of the inspiration came from the United States, where preachers such as Bob Beeman and bands such as Stryper have long used metal for evangelism.

Even so, he said, conventional religion and music were reluctant to find a place for a group that wedded two cultures that had often seemed contradictory.

“Heavy metal has always been sort of marginalised by mainstream society. We’re surrounded by prejudice. Christians in the traditional church think you can’t associate heavy metal with God. People into black metal, death metal, they say we can’t play heavy metal because heavy metal belongs only to the devil,” he said. “But the great thing is we are not prejudiced against anyone. We open our doors to everyone.”

Metanóia is not alone. There are three other metal churches in Rio and several more in São Paulo and other cities. They have their own guardian angel, according to members of the congregation who claim to see visions.

“Sometimes at some services an angel comes here in the image of a head-banger. He has army boots, black trousers with chains and wears bracelets. His hair is long and he’s shirtless. We had visions of him dancing in the middle of the people here. We’ve seen him three times. He should be the angel who protects us,” says Galvão, whose wife – a partner in the mission – claims to have seen Jesus several times.

While many non-Christians and non-metalheads may mock, it is the spiritualism as much as – if not more – than the metal that draws believers.

Vandernilda de Alexandra, a middle-aged conservatively dressed woman, said she has been coming to the church for 12 years and would never consider another despite her mixed feelings about the music.

“I come here for spiritual nutrition,” she said in a quiet room away from the stage. “I’m not into heavy metal. I have learned from the people here how to listen to it. But I prefer romantic ballads or samba.”

Additional reporting by Shanna Hanbury