Another Holy See: Visiting The Center Of Caodaism in Southern Vietnam
Only 55 miles of road separate Ho Chi Minh City from Tây Ninh. The thin ribbon of pavement emerges from Vietnam’s largest megalopolis, cuts through the Saigon suburbs, and finally slices through rice fields, bracketed most of the way by the sprawl of huts, houses, shops and temples that line roads from the (in this case former) national capitals of Southeast Asia out into the provinces.
I strain to see as much as possible, even as the villages and farms flashing by recede into the gathering darkness. It occurs to me that had we both been born 50 years earlier, my driver and I might have been out there, sloshing through those paddies, trying to kill each other. I strongly prefer our current arrangement.
I’m making this pilgrimage because of Graham Greene. I imagine this is true of quite a few foreign visitors who end up on the road to Tây Ninh. Graham’s “The Quiet American” is one of those books that travel guides recommend to tourists planning a first trip to Vietnam who want to catch a whiff of its ethos before arriving.
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The novel is set in the 1950s as the First Indochina War is winding down and the seeds of the Vietnam War are already beginning to sprout. About halfway through the story, Graham’s protagonist leaves his usual haunts in Saigon and joins a delegation of dignitaries going to attend a religious festival at the Tây Ninh Holy See, home of a new religion called Caodaism.
The character, an English war correspondent, says “Caodaism was always the favorite chapter of my briefing to visitors.”
As the narrative continues and the reader learns a bit about the faith’s characteristics and its main temple, it’s not hard to understand why.
The Third Great Amnesty of God
Séance has been central to Caodaism from the very beginning. In the early 1920s, a Vietnamese civil servant named Ngô Văn Chiêu became convinced that he was receiving messages from Cao Dai, the supreme being known in other faiths as God.
Ngô Văn Chiêu shared this revelation with a few other spiritually minded Vietnamese who gradually began to organize. Their preliminary efforts culminated in a 1926 letter to the French colonial governor announcing the establishment of a new, homegrown, syncretistic and monotheistic faith.
Photos by James Thompson
The missive begins with a heavy dose of nostalgia. It pines after an unspecified, distant era when their ancestors “were so carefree that they could sleep without having to close their doors.” This was possible because they “lived happily by strictly following the beautiful precepts” of Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism. The letter’s authors lament that such a “beautiful time” has passed.
This lament is the stated impetus for the establishment of Caodaism. The letter explains that, to lead the Vietnamese and the world to a happier era, a group of “fervent traditionalists and religious people” have studied how the three older faiths might be combined into something new.
Fortunately, the “Supreme Spirit,” or Cao Đài, showed up to help by offering the “Third Great Amnesty” (sometimes also called “The Third Alliance”), resulting in the unity of the three aforementioned faiths. The letter optimistically concludes by positing that “this new religion will bring to us all peace and harmony.”
By the time the letter was sent, the ideals of peace and harmony were already being challenged within the fledgling faith. Ngô Văn Chiêu’s vision for the future diverged from other leaders, and he was not one of the declaration’s signatories. He would also forgo the chance to become the first Caodaist pope. Another of the early disciples, Phạm Công Tắc, became the leader of the group’s dominant branch, and they established their Holy See in Tây Ninh.
Out of many, one
Subsequent documents and doctrines go beyond the goal of uniting Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism. Instead, they identify Caodaism as a final and cumulative movement that unifies all religions. The Caodaist belief is that this is only right, since all previous religious teachings were divine messages delivered by various fallible human messengers but are ultimately all from the same source. Their differences are explainable as adjustments made to suit the people of different times in disparate cultures. With its inclusive pantheon and emphasis on direct communication with the unseen realm, Caodaism sees itself as the climax of humanity’s long spiritual journey.
This aspiration was reflected in the development of Caodaist symbols and terminology. Male members of the Cửu Trùng Ðài (Caodaism’s executive body) are assigned to groups representing Taoism, Buddhism or Confucianism, and wear robes of blue, yellow or red, respectively, to indicate their affiliation. Lay worshipers wear white clothes that favor attire common to the Muslim world, and the men add to this impression by donning small black turbans. The temples are shaped like the cathedrals of the West and are adorned with iconography largely from the East. Designations like “Holy See,” “pope” and “cardinal” were obviously borrowed from Roman Catholicism.
Caodaist beliefs and practices are a similar blend — although these seem to be skewed more towards traditionally Asian spiritualities. Reincarnation, karma, ancestor worship and divination are all central elements, while the most apparent contribution of the Abrahamic religions is monotheism.
However, it is Caodaists’ belief in the Deity that gives them their most important symbol: the Divine Eye. This icon first appeared in a vision to Ngô Văn Chiêu, and today it is featured in temples and on religious dress. It appears most prominently on the giant globe in the front of the Tây Ninh Holy See, immediately accosting anyone who enters the main hall.
Sun, Nguyen and Hugo
It was late by the time I arrived in Tây Ninh. I checked into my hotel, tucked myself into bed and promptly failed to fall asleep for the next five hours. I finally gave up, got up and got ready to head over to the Caodaists’ complex.
My plan for this expedition, if you can call it that, was simply to show up and see what happened. I did not know what the daily schedule at the Holy See was, and since I was arriving there a few minutes after 5:30 a.m., I fully expected the place to be mostly abandoned. This would give me a chance to look around, get my bearings and make it back to the hotel in plenty of time for the continental breakfast. I could return for whatever activities or services would take place at a more reasonable hour.
After alighting from my taxi, I saw that my assumption had been incorrect. The expansive temple grounds were busy with joggers, motorcyclists, and yes, the Caodaist faithful all coexisting around the center of the Third Amnesty on this pale April morning. The first two groups were just passing by, but the throng of worshippers was slowly growing around the building. I later learned that there are four daily formal times of worship here, spaced 6 hours apart. I had inadvertently shown up for the 6 a.m. service.
The crowd started making their way into the impressive, eclectic temple. Unsure of the protocol for visitors, I hung back, watching the adepts and novices enter through the large front doors. Looking inside, I could see a painting on the back wall of the narthex. It featured three figures who were all focused on what appeared to be some sort of celestial tablet. I would discover that these three are Sun Yat-sen, the Chinese statesman and revolutionary; Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm, the Vietnamese poet and sage; and Victor Hugo, the French writer and politician. A nearby sign explained that these are “signatories of the 3rd Alliance between God and Mankind,” and are regarded as Caodaist saints.
After the worshippers had all filed inside and music had signaled the beginning of the ceremony, I tentatively walked into the temple through a back side entrance. No one objected. I took a seat on the floor in a small anteroom. Some of the Caodaists were also seated here, and I could see through a doorway that much of the floor space in the back of the main hall was already taken. I could not see what rituals, if any, were being performed in the front of the temple, but I watched the laity following along: uttering prayers, standing, sitting, turning, listening. And there was music: melodic chants fused with high-pitched wind instruments and percussion.
Thirty minutes later, a gong summoned everyone to their feet, and the service drew to a close. The crowd streamed out and headed off to begin their day. I watched as their motorcycles or their feet carried them in various directions. Gradually, the temple became quieter, although some people had stuck around for smaller, less corporate rituals. One of these appeared to be a sort of baptism.
I walked back into the temple and entered the main hall. No one objected to my presence or my camera, but a few sentries were on patrol to keep tabs on visitors and show them where they were allowed to walk. I explored the temple and surrounding area for another hour before finally yielding to hunger and heading back to my hotel.
Popes — both physical and spiritual
When I returned to the Caodaist grounds a few hours later, the noon service had already begun. I sneaked in the back again, this time making it over to the central lobby, which gave me a better view of the proceedings. The laity sat again in rows in the back half of the temple, while the few with colorful robes sat closer to the front. The music and rituals seemed to me largely the same as what I had observed a few hours before.
I had been the only obvious foreigner at the 6 a.m. gathering. Now, I was joined by a small tour group, likely having come on a day trip from Ho Chi Minh City. They had probably already visited the Củ Chi tunnels, were popping into the Holy See for a half hour or so, and would soon proceed to Tây Ninh’s imposing Black Virgin Mountain before turning around to make it back to Saigon by suppertime.
After this ceremony concluded and the crowd again cleared out, I again walked around the now mostly empty building. The sentries resumed their posts. I approached one, but it quickly became clear that he was almost as deficient in my language as I was in his. Using Google for a translation, I asked if there was anyone around who could answer some questions in English. He gave me a sad smile and shook his head. I smiled back and moved on.
A few minutes later, the same fellow got my attention and motioned excitedly for me to follow him outside. He led me to a gray-haired Vietnamese gentleman who did, in fact, speak English. Now 55, he said that he had been a Caodaist since age 9 and would be glad to give me a tour and answer some questions.
We reentered the temple and began walking around its periphery. Eventually, we made it to the front and stood near the giant globe. My guide pointed out eight small figurines displayed above the blue orb. These depicted various spiritual leaders, representing some of the religions that Caodaism seeks to unite. The Buddha, Lao Tzu, and Confucius formed the top row. Beneath Buddha, who was in the center, was Chinese poet Li Bai. Caodaists claim him as their “spiritual pope.” Below him, seemingly on the third tier of a divine hierarchy, was Jesus.
We continued to the area on the other side of the globe. Directly behind it, part of the floor appeared to be removable. This is a crypt for Caodaist cardinals, my guide explained. The remains of Le Van Trung, who was the first temporal pope, are interred in a tower behind the temple. The only other pope besides Li Bai (who, it should be noted, lived his physical life in the eighth century) was Phạm Công Tắc. Since his death, the highest possible rank for Caodaist leadership is Cardinal. This is because the process of electing a new pope requires consulting with Li Bai and other deceased figures, and séances have been banned by Vietnam’s communist government since 1975.
The ‘Mother Goddess’
After talking with my guide a bit longer, I decided to leave the temple and explore the rest of the Caodaist estate. I tipped him and then wandered around the nearby gardens before deciding to head down a large thoroughfare that led deeper into the complex. It was lined with buildings of various sizes, some seemingly offices while others appeared more residential.
I paused to examine several from the outside. After going a short distance, I came to one that seemed to merit a closer look. This was another temple, smaller than the one I had just left. There were a few women dressed in white resting outside the entrance. One of them followed me inside to chaperone my sightseeing experience.
She wasn't the only one following me. Just a few short minutes later, my guide from 30 minutes before rushed into the temple, calling after me. He was somewhat out of breath. I was a bit annoyed at having been trailed, but this feeling quickly dissipated. I very much wanted to know the significance of this second temple, and he was likely the only person around who could tell me.
This smaller temple had a similar style of decor, but the large blue globe and divine eye were absent. Instead, there was an icon on the front wall featuring a Buddhist-looking female figure, with many similar but smaller characters behind her. My guide explained that this temple is dedicated to the “Mother Goddess.” Caodaism believes in a female counterpart to God the Father who “holds equivalent and complementary status.” My first thought was that this principle did not seem to hold up when it came to the relative size of the female deity’s temple. I’ve since read that another Mother Goddess temple is planned that will be built according to her directions, but this process is hampered, again, by the prohibition on séance.
We walked from the main hall into a back room. Here the decorations were less ornate, and it seemed to be primarily an area for the temple attendants to rest and eat. On one of the walls were two large posters explaining possible afterlife destinations. The first advertised an assortment of heavens, while the second warned of increasingly unappealing levels of hell. The images reminded me of depictions of hells from the Pali Canon, the scriptures of Theravada Buddhism: transgressors being dunked in giant vats of boiling liquid, eager demons impaling or sawing the bodies of sinners.
My guide and I talked a while longer, but we eventually parted when I continued on to explore the rest of the grounds. There were undeveloped areas planted in trees, a guesthouse for visiting dignitaries and several schools, which seemed to be empty on this Thursday afternoon. After making a large circle back to the Great Divine Temple, I went back to my hotel to escape the heat. When I returned in the evening, a monkey from the nearby woods had climbed the temple’s exterior. Watching the faithful try to discourage this behavior was quite entertaining, but the actual ceremony was largely the same, now familiar, mix of chants and music that I had observed twice before. This would be the conclusion of my visit; I was at my hotel and fast asleep well before midnight Mass.
Views from the West
When Greene portrayed them in “The Quiet American,” the Caodaists were not only a new faith community but also a political and military force allied with the French colonial government against the Communist Viet Minh (although the group’s affiliations were not always very clear cut).
Greene’s protagonist was left unimpressed with the Caodaists as a fighting force but seemed to take their religious beliefs and trappings even less seriously, famously describing their temple as “a Walt Disney fantasia of the East, dragons and snakes in technicolor.” Some other writers offered similar, even more critical, evaluations.
It seems that these negative appraisals are now out of style, especially in the academy. Determined to vanquish the “colonial sneer” of the past, some academics have highlighted Caodaism’s anti-colonial elements, such as symbols that “imagined a world in which Asian spiritual masters would come to replace Western colonial masters.”
Other scholars see Caodaism as an ally in promoting an omnistic version of religious tolerance. One Australian religion professor offered the following assessment: Caodaism “shows that Jesus Christ, Lao Tzu, Confucius and Buddha can all be worshipped together. This is a message Australia could use.”
That message has been brought to Australia, and many other countries as well, both through the Vietnamese diaspora and missionary endeavors. Now roughly a century old and estimated to be over 5 million strong, the global Caodaist community has come a long way from the early séance sessions in Saigon. Yet to achieve its vision of “propagat[ing] this Holy Doctrine to all humanity,” there is still a long way to go.
James Thompson is an international campus minister and freelance writer. His work has also appeared in Christianity Today.