So I arrived there, at that temple whose floor was packed dirt, the seats were old school chairs, and the ceiling was the starry sky — certainly, there are no paintings or stained glass in the World that surpass that setting. My “beginning” of the Christian walk happened there, at the Tabuleiro Church; a remote neighborhood, unassisted and full of stories of violence. The pastor, a short potbellied man with a striking mustache and an out-of-tune voice, in whose resume he liked to emphasize the experience of having been a shepherd of real sheep.
The heart wanted nothing else: my first love there was watered by edifying stories, of deliverance and healing in various forms, some of which I want to share with you reading this. In this church, every Saturday night, there is a prayer meeting which I, after some time as a new convert, decided to attend.
These meetings were held at the back of the temple, in a simple little house that later gave way to more space for chairs and a mezzanine. There, one could feel the human warmth, the closeness with the brothers. Laughter was common, especially when some lazier or tired brother fell asleep.
With everyone gathered, the pastor, with his out-of-tune voice, would start a chant accompanied by the other brothers. A praise that marked, for me, all meetings and prayers in groups or alone. “Senhor formoso és” (Lord, You are beautiful) became a prayer anthem for me, a hymn I later forgot.
Over time, I started going out with the brothers to preach the gospel in the localities. I remember clearly how I felt like a pioneer, a hero accompanying others sitting in the back of a pickup truck cutting through the darkness in the middle of nowhere.
Gradually, the pastor and I became closer; confessions were made about various subjects and he, wisely, helped me demystify the superman I saw in him, recounting some of his difficulties in the Christian journey. Even today, I learn from the conversations we had, that is: to persist in faith; to have more compassion, empathy, and with that, to have tolerance for the difficulties of others.
But, certainly, among the moments that the Tabuleiro Church provided me, is the memory of a conversation in the shade of the juazeiro (I think that was the tree) that grew in the bed of a dry creek where, after a delicious lunch, I, the pastor, and about five or six other brothers rested while waiting for the late afternoon to start another service. He, sitting in the hammock, with his Bible open, talked with us, who were scattered on logs or on the pebbles on the ground: “I keep imagining Jesus, sitting talking with his disciples, all on the ground, just as we are now. How must they have felt? I wonder if it was more or less like us here, in the shade of the juazeiro?…”
Then he presented some texts to us and, as we were all already desiring, we prayed.
It was so good to be there, fraternally, without prejudices or theological discussions, being just brothers, being friends who shared the faith and recognized the Holy Spirit in one another.
For a few days, I have been thinking about the Tabuleiro Church, trying without success to remember the hymn we sang before praying. Nothing of the lyrics, the melody, not even the rhythm. Until yesterday, gathered with other brothers and, despite not being under the shade of the juazeiro, the hymn was sung. My goodness, what a joy to remember, it was what I needed! I felt my “first love” again.
Early today, March 24, 2018, I found the chords and tried to play it on my guitar. Those who know me know that I don’t know how to play the guitar and, between one mistake and another, a try and a stop, I discovered that the pastor had passed away four days ago. Josivaldo Soares, the shepherd of sheep and men, to whom I dedicate this simple tribute, suffered a massive heart attack and rested. Certainly, having fought the good fight and, finished his course, kept the faith, he now awaits the opportunity to, after the resurrection of the dead, see the face of the Good Shepherd whom he served with such dedication: our Lord Jesus Christ.
May God comfort Mazé, his children, and his brothers, and may He strengthen the workers to continue the work and honor his legacy!
To the pastor, with love.