Opening day service at the Morro Azul church.

Luciana cleaning the floor

During the first year of Project Brasil, Steve sent newsletters to family and friends.
We're posting those here so you can follow the progress of this ministry.

MARCH 17, 2005

Greetings from the face of the sun. Well, it's not quite that hot here, but almost. The work is going well and I believe that some great things are being accomplished — things that will affect many lives for many years to come — but that doesn't make the heat any more bearable. In fact, I have noticed that lately I haven't heard gunfire in the hills late at night — I think people are just too hot to be contentious.

It amazes me, though, that most people don't look as uncomfortable as I feel. Everyday I see businessmen dressed in suits and long sleeve shirts — and they always look fresh and relaxed. Last Friday night I went to a Bible Study in Morro Azul. By the time I got to the top of the hill I was huffing and puffing and sweating like the proverbial racehorse, but everyone else was fine. The Bible study was in a tiny apartment with one small window and no fan ... and I kept sweating. If you remember Albert Brooks in Broadcast News, that was me. I was quite a spectacle; I'm surprised they didn't ask me to leave.

PROGRESS
Regardless, we're making progress with the work here. The building in Morro Azul is being used for Bible studies two times a week (Sunday morning and Tuesday night) and for 2 different English classes that each meet three days a week. We also have a brunch for kids on Sunday morning—hot dogs and coke. I am looking at the possibility of using it in the evening (or maybe on weekends) as a sort of daycare from to help parents who work late and/or need to run errands. First, we need to build a "fence" across that big garage door type opening in the front of the building. (see pictures) I'm working on this now.

Right now all of our English students are teenagers because we offer classes only during the day. There are many adults who want to learn English but aren't able to attend day classes. Neither do they want to venture into the favela at night to take a class (our teachers aren't crazy about that idea either). Therefore, we are looking for an additional space outside the favela so that we can offer more English classes.

PTL
A couple of developments: our main English teacher, Maria, was scheduled to leave for Spain this month, but her plans changed and she will be with us for a while. Also, in my last letter I said we were looking for a computer teacher. We have one now—but we still need to work out something with the computers. I thought we would be able to use some that were donated to Morro Azul (they're sitting there unused) — but we haven't gotten approval yet.

I was asked to sing at church last Sunday night, so I performed Be the Centre in both English and Portuguese. I have never before been so nervous about singing. I have no idea how I did — specifically I don't know how well I sang in Portuguese. I say this because afterwards several people told me that I have a nice voice, but not a single person commented on the fact that I sang in Portuguese. Maybe this is because none of them realized that I was singing in Portuguese. Do you get what I'm saying here? If my singing voice generates more compliments than my Portuguese, then my Portuguese must certainly be wretched.

THE FAVELA
A couple of interesting favela stories. Last week I was walking in Morro Azul and I heard someone yell "GRINGO!" I looked up and saw a teenager leaning out his 3rd floor apartment window, giving me a "thumbs up" sign (this is a friendly wave here). By the way, "gringo" is not an insult. It refers basically to any foreigner, most often Americans and Europeans. I'm becoming enough of a fixture in the community that people are getting used to me. A few days ago I was in a restaurant and a busboy came up to my table and began speaking to me. I didn't recognize him, but he recognized me—he said "Morro Azul" and I knew who he was. It's funny how such a minor thing as someone saying hello can mean so much.

With the people I meet and work with here I'm constantly emphasizing the fact I am not a pastor, I am just a regular guy. My work here is more educational than it is evangelistic. But I changed my tune when I was stopped late one evening in Morro Azul by a sentry who didn't know me. As I have said in previous emails, there are sentries posted at various points in the favela to serve as lookouts for rival gang members or police. I worked late one night in the building and on my way down the hill a gun-toting teen-aged kid began shouting at me. I had no idea what he was saying, but I was pretty sure he wasn't inviting me to a funk party. At that point, all my "regular guy" rhetoric went out the window. I said, "Eu sou PASTOR STEVE! Eu sou um missionary! Sou da Igreja Metodista!" And I waved in the direction of our building. He then gave me a big smile and shook my hand and said, "Muito bom!" (very good) and all was well. It was, I believe, the first time I ever shook hands with an armed gangster. Needless to say, I'm now a little more careful about my coming and going.

PORTUGOOFS
It seems each time I write I have at least one story or one example of how I have butchered the language here. This first one, however, doesn't really have anything to do with language. You know how Americans make the OK sign — a circle with the thumb and forefinger. I found out that this is basically the same as the "finger" in Brasil. Unfortunately, I make this gesture quite often out of habit—I never realized it until I got here. I was in a record store and the clerk offered to play a certain type of music for me and I gave him the OK sign, and he gave me a surprised look. In a restaurant my waiter asked if I want another coke, I gave him the OK sign, and he gave me a surprised look. To make matters worse, this is also how I make the number "3". I was in a meeting a few weeks ago and apparently I kept repeating my third point because Beatriz finally interrupted me and said, "Steve, don't make that with your hand." So I stopped, apologized to everyone for the faux pas, thanked her for the courteous reminder, gave the OK sign, and continued making my point. I had no idea I was so attached to this gesture—but it's going to get me beat up if I'm not careful.

Another mistake I discovered. Brasilians say they "know" a place when they have traveled there. For example, I know Los Angeles because I've been there, but I don't know Boston because I haven't been there. I wasn't aware of this distinction when I talked one night to an English speaking man at church. He kept asking me if I knew this place or that, and I kept saying yes. I was thinking, "Of course, I know about Madrid; I went to college." But he was asking if I had traveled to these places. So now he thinks I have visited every corner of the planet from Albania to Zamunda—or he thinks I'm a liar of insane proportions since no one in one lifetime could have been to all the places I claimed to know.

I posted some new pictures that I hope you will enjoy—some photos of a couple of events with friends and some updates on the work I'm doing here. Take a look when you get a chance. And keep me in your prayers.

Sincerely,

Steve