Article
Change
Community
Development
7 min read

To a house on the hill

Why did a New York lawyer move to a Brazilian slum? Jane Cacouris talks to Luke Simone about his extraordinary story.

Jane Cacouris

Jane Cacouris is a writer and consultant working in international development on environment, poverty and livelihood issues.

an aerial view of a shantytown on a steep hill side in Rio, Sugerloaf Mountain is visible in the distance
Morro da Providencia, Rio de Janeiro.

It was a hot and humid evening in 2015 and Luke had just moved into a tiny house in Morro da Providencia, Rio de Janeiro’s oldest favela, a shantytown located in the heart of the city. His new home was near the top of the hill, sandwiched between two loud and rampant drug dens. He could hear the parties and orgies happening above and below him twenty-four hours a day; his neighbours regularly firing bullets out of the windows. The noise was draining and constant. It was dark outside, and Luke sat frozen in fear, staring at a blank laptop screen by his window facing the street… waiting and praying. He had just been informed that the bandidos (drug traffickers from the main drug gang in the favela) were on their way to pay him a visit. Gossip on the street had spread that he was an undercover police officer. Why else would a white British gringo in his thirties choose to buy a house in one of Rio’s poorest and most dangerous communities?  

“After about five minutes I saw a glint out of the corner of my eye… I looked around and a number of drug dealers were arriving on the porch.” 

Faced with ten heavily armed gang members, they asked who he was and what he was doing in their community. Luke took a breath and explained that God had called him to Brazil from New York, and that he was choosing to live in Providencia because he loved the neighbourhood, and wanted to serve the community and build something for them; for their children and their young people. The gang listened. Then remarkably they lowered their guns, said “ok then”, and walked away. Luke was stunned.  

“I know what happens to people… It was a very violent time. I thought I was going to die and it was terrifying. But God turned it around...” 

The relief that he was alive quickly turned into disappointment; a realisation that despite all the sacrifices he had made to be there, he wasn’t wanted by the people he had given up everything to serve. 

Armed police patrol the favela.

Armed police stand on steep steps between shantytown dwellings

Five years previously Luke was living in New York working as a finance lawyer with a corporate law firm. He was single, his firm paid for his Manhattan apartment, and he had so much disposable income that he saved half his pay each month. Originally from the UK, he grew up going to a local church in Surrey with his family, but he’d fallen far away from God.  

“I was in a favourable position to go off the rails. And I did go off the rails.” he says. 

In 2009, the financial crash hit and having spent five years living and working in New York, Luke began to question the premise and direction of his life. Through a family member, he was put in touch with a Christian association working with street children in São Paulo in Brazil, providing living accommodation to homeless children, who were disenfranchised from their families and/or victims of abuse and neglect. The aim was to reintegrate the children where possible with their families. During a weekend visit to São Paulo, within fifteen minutes of being shown around one of the shelters, Luke had a deep conviction that this was where he was meant to be.  

 “It was not this Damascus Road moment,” he says.  “It was a familiar voice. Not someone who was needing to twist my arm or convince me. I felt I was in good hands. Even though change was going to mean going from a six-figure bonus to zero salary…. I was suddenly ready to risk everything knowing I was in these safe hands.” 

A few months later Luke moved from New York to Brazil and went on to live and work in one of the shelters for street children for several years. He talks about a particularly bleak time when one of the boys in the shelter took a dislike to him, the relationship becoming so acrimonious that Luke even began fearing for his life. Emotionally and mentally drained, feeling rejected by the children he was trying to care for, he went away for a couple of days to regroup and called his sister. He recalls, 

“She said to me, ‘Just come home Luke. Just come home.’” 

Her words made him realise that he had life choices the street kids simply didn’t have. He could choose to leave them and “go home” at any moment; home to people who loved and cared for him. The children he was working with were born without options or choices. So, Luke decided to stay, and by making that decision, hoped to model a love and commitment to those who perhaps had never experienced it. A love that doesn’t diminish or disappear, even when we turn our backs. 

Luke Simone.

A man sits on a concrete path with one leg splayed out in front.

What is intriguing about Luke’s story is not the desire to “re-purpose” his life. So many of us feel at times in our lives that we are drifting without purpose or meaning but when we look for more purpose, it tends to be either seeking fulfilment in our work - towards more wealth or influence or social legacy - or through our relationships. What is intriguing is that Luke chose to follow God’s purpose, rather than his own.  

Luke’s story is one of sacrificing comfort, wealth and status to simply do life alongside the people that society in general has given up on, and, at times, in return getting hostility and death threats from the very people he is walking with. The story is a little reminiscent of the gospel story of Jesus Christ. Although, of course, Luke will be the first to say that he’s certainly not Jesus - “unqualified”, “unprepared” and “broken” are words he uses to describe himself – but perhaps this self-awareness of his own flaws has given him the ability to rely entirely on God rather than himself, in a place where he simply has to. 

Missionaries, like Luke, are perceived by many to be the outworking of a colonial interpretation of the “Great Commission.” This refers to a number of passages in the gospel of Matthew where Jesus tells his apostles to “make disciples of all nations.” People assume this means going to far flung places and preaching about Jesus. But when I asked Luke about his work in Providencia, for him, mission is far more integral and encompassing than “straight evangelism.”  

As theologian Christopher Wright points out, Jesus was concerned with responding to the needs of people - both materially and spiritually - in the power of the Holy Spirit. The two go together and are integrated. The Book of Acts and letters of the apostle Paul in the Bible show a commitment of the followers of Jesus to preach the good news and bring others to faith, but also to live with compassion as a loving community seeking to address the social and material needs of those around them. In fact, Paul’s first of many missionary journeys was to provide famine relief to prevent starvation of the people in Judea.  

So where is Luke now thirteen years after he first left New York? He still lives in Providencia and together with his team of volunteers and a local church in Rio, he has built and runs a community house, Casa Cruzeiro (House of the Cross) and adjoining educational annex at the highest point of the favela.  

Casa Cruzeiro.

A group of buildings jostle together at the summit of a hill in a city.

On entering Casa Cruzeiro during my visit to Rio a few months ago, I was struck by the sense of peace. The community around the house is far from calm. It’s poverty at its crudest and, as Luke will say, at times depicting humanity at its darkest. Murder, rape, incest, drugs, extortion, prostitution, abuse, neglect… the list goes on. Life at the margins doesn’t get more marginalised than this. Casa Cruzeiro is a light in the darkness, a stillness in the chaos. It operates an open-door policy where anyone is welcome, drug traffickers included (as long as they behave), for a meal, to hang out, to talk, even to stay if someone needs a roof over their head. About 200 children, adolescents and adults pass through their doors each week, and some of the activities include an afterschool programme, adult literacy support, a communal vegetable garden, career counselling, guitar lessons, bible studies and prayer groups. Material and spiritual needs met seamlessly and uncomplicatedly together as part of a whole.  

A  Providencia family.

A mother sits with a toddler standing in front of her. The father appears from the side lying on his back reaching an arm out.
A family play in a Rio favela.

If you could rewind the clock by thirteen years, and make a different choice, would you? I ask Luke. He pauses, and says no, but is clear that it hasn’t always felt like an easy choice. He’s often pondered over the comfort and wealth that he left behind. But at the moment he has no plans to leave.  

And what has he learnt about God over these years in Brazil?   

When he relies on God he feels a deep sense of peace, and a conviction of God’s love in a way he hadn’t known before.  

“When God called me to Brazil, he was saying, ‘You need to know me again. I want to reintroduce myself to you. This is who I am. And this is how much I love you.”

Jesus said to His father, “Let thy Kingdom come, on Earth as it is in Heaven.” And as I walk around the safe, clean space of Casa Cruzeiro… chat with Iam over lunch, who became a Christian five years ago when reading a passage of scripture with Luke… hear about Monique, who with the team’s help, has been accepted onto a youth apprenticeship programme… look out from the roof top past the carefully nurtured community vegetable garden to the dark winding alleys and mish mash of favela shacks sprawling down the hill and into the city beyond….and watch Luke’s eyes lighten as he tells me about the young people that he and his team look after and walk through life with…  

I realise this is what Jesus meant.  

Related articles

Article
Change
Generosity
7 min read

What a campfire encounter teaches about making enemies and building empathy

Crossing divides in the most unexpected circumstances, Jer Swigart shares an extraordinary encounter that brought questions about friends, enemies and how far his empathy could stretch.

Jer Swigart

Jer Swigart is the co-founder of Global Immersion, a peace-making training organization in North America. He is a Senior Fellow of the Dietrich Bonhoeffer Institute.

a group of people crowd round a campfire backlighting them in silhouette.
Around a campfire.
Joris Voeten on Unsplash

This article was first published on the Difference blog of the Reconciliation Leaders Network. The network was established as part of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Reconciliation Ministry.   

In her book, Shalom Sistas: Living Wholeheartedly in a Broken World, my dear friend, and peacemaking conspirator, Osheta Moore defines enemy as anyone or any group that exists beyond the reach of my empathy. 

I don’t like the idea that I have enemies. I prefer to congratulate myself for crossing divides into transforming relationships with those who have been marginalized by power. I certainly don’t like her suggestion that there are people or groups of people that exist beyond the reach of my empathy. For it asserts that I play a role in constructing my enemies and that, as john a. powell argues, my “circle of human concern” is far too small.  

Not long ago, I was confronted by both my expertise in constructing enemies and the limit of my empathy’s reach. 

I had been shot twice by non-lethal rounds while holding a non-violent line between protestors and law enforcement. 

It was the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic and a time saturated with upheaval. Migrant and refugee communities were disproportionately impacted by the pandemic. The Black lives of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd had been prematurely extinguished by White vigilantes and law enforcement. A next racial revolution was at hand, and I was privileged to be a part of political advocacy efforts, direct non-violent action, and creative civil disobedience. I had been shot twice by non-lethal rounds while holding a non-violent line between protestors and law enforcement with fellow clergy, giving me a tangible experience of absorbing state-sanctioned violence on behalf of those who have been for generations.  In local protests, White militia groups would regularly descend in acts of intimidation with diesel trucks, offensive flags, and guns. 

While I was contending with those disadvantaged by inequitable uses of power, I didn’t realize that I was fabricating a new enemy. 

After months of this, I and my family were fatigued and in dire need of a change of scenery. So, we loaded up our camper and embarked upon an off-the-grid adventure in the wild wonderland that is U.S. America’s Pacific Northwest. We set up camp next to a high-alpine lake and were thrilled to have the entire place to ourselves. My enthusiasm waned as the sound of a diesel engine drew near to our camp. My joy evaporated when an enormous truck towing a camper trailer, stickered with brash political statements, parked right next to us. 

In my mind, our tranquility had been invaded by folks of the other political persuasion who clearly had no regard for the unknown dangers of COVID-19. Without even seeing their faces, I concluded that these were the ones who stood on the side of the very injustice I was fighting against. 

In my daughter’s mind, we had some new neighbors to build relationships with. 

For hours, the five of them built friendships while I deepened my fabricated narrative about who these people were and why they were parked right next to us. 

Within moments, she introduced herself and volunteered to organize a water adventure with her brothers and their two kids. For hours, the five of them built friendships while I deepened my fabricated narrative about who these people were and why they were parked right next to us. 

I’d like to say that we crossed over to their camp and introduced ourselves, but I can’t. Rather, it was the two adults from their camp that crossed over to ours. They wanted to meet the parents of the extraordinary young woman who lived with such relational intention. 

As they drew near, my fabrications seemed to be confirmed. Both of them wore t-shirts plastered with American flags, guns, and imagery that boasted their preference for law enforcement over Black lives. His and her lower lips bulged with wads of tobacco and they both wore handguns on their hips. They introduced themselves and proceeded to rave about my daughter…which softened my heart toward them. 

While in conversation, I could sense that he was evaluating my camp. Eventually, he shared his two observations. First, he saw my bow. I had recently taken up archery with the intention of learning how to hunt for elk in the forests of my homeland. I liked the idea of ethically harvesting meat for my family and knew that I needed a lot of practice in order to be successful. I had brought my bow with me so that I could practice and he indicated that he had brought his bow as well. Second, he saw that I had an insignificant amount of firewood for the length of time we’d be camping. With a grin, he declared that he hadn’t brought any firewood. Then, after motioning to the fallen trees around us, mentioned that he had a chainsaw instead. 

I invited him to shoot his bow with me. He offered to cut more firewood for us. A nominal invitation and the offer of generosity sparked an uncommon friendship that is transforming me. 

Our families spent the weekend together, sharing meals, extended fireside conversations, and wilderness adventures. We shot arrows at targets and I heard tales of his elk-hunting adventures. At the conclusion of our not-so-solitary camping trip, I asked him if he’d be willing to teach me how to hunt elk. He responded with an emphatic “Yes!” and invited me to join him in the woods one month from then. 

Thirty days later, the two of us met in what seemed to be the fusion of a mythical jungle with a magical pine forest. It was dark and steep and the brush was impossibly thick. For hours, we hiked together up and down mountains: he was the teacher, and I was the student. That evening we found ourselves around another fire, preparing our food together yet again. 

With our meal plated, he opened our next conversation with this: “So, I’ve been researching you online.” He proceeded to share with me that he had seen images of me in protests and war zones, with political leaders, movement leaders, and faith leaders. He had read many of my reflections about peace and justice and saw that I had even written a book about it. He closed with, “I gotta know. What are you?! FBI? CIA?” 

I didn’t perceive his question as a threat, but rather, as a next invitation.

After a good laugh, I explained more about who I am, what I do, why I do it, and how my faith is the fuel behind all of it. As I did, it dawned on him that I represented those on the other side of his political and ideological persuasion. At one point he leaned back from the fire, his 9mm pistol glistening with its reflection, and declared to me that he was an avowed Three Percenter. 

In the U.S., Three Percenter is a term utilized by White militia groups based on the myth that only three percent of settlers were willing to pick up arms and fight for independence during the Revolutionary War. It is a designation for those who are willing to pick up arms again when they sense that their rights and advantages are being tread upon. 

After his declaration, he asked, “Is that going to be a problem?” 

I didn’t perceive his question as a threat, but rather, as a next invitation. I understood him as wondering aloud if the divide between his ideology and mine was too expansive for us to continue building a friendship. 

I responded with this: “Your convictions and the way they shape your life are different from my convictions and the way they shape mine. Yet I sense that we both wonder if bridging the gap between us into a friendship is better than remaining enemies on opposite sides. For us to do so would likely make ours among the most uncommon friendships in the Pacific Northwest. I’m in if you are.” 

With a nod, he leaned back in and we finished our dinner, reflecting on all that we had experienced that day. With the rise of the sun, we were back on the trails, but the conversation had shifted. He began to open up his life to me with surprising vulnerability and I did the same. We began to recognize that what we shared in common far outweighed our differences. As the miles grew, so too did the reach of my empathy. 

Three years later, our friendship continues to deepen and it’s transforming me. I find myself reflecting frequently on Jesus’ revolutionary teaching on enemy-love. I’m inspired by the notion that Jesus was the only one who ever took us beyond convenient understandings of neighbor-love to love of enemy. I’m learning that in order to love my enemy, I must first understand my enemy. To do so requires that I confess my efficiency at fabricating enemies, lament the limits of my empathy, and dare to cross over any divide equipped with curiosity and compassion.

Related articles