Who Founded Caodaism And What Was Their Message?

When I first wandered into the blazing, gaudy façade of the Tây Ninh Holy See, the thing that grabbed my attention right away was that enormous eye watching from the centre of everything. That 'Divine Eye'—often drawn as an eye inside a triangle or sunburst—is the most iconic image of Caodaism. For followers it represents the Supreme Being: an omniscient, compassionate force that sees all and guides the cosmos. I liked how it felt less like a cold theological emblem and more like a very human reminder that morality and justice are observed; the symbol reads like a cosmic conscience hanging above the altars, incense, and banners. Beyond the eye, colour plays a huge symbolic role in Caodai visual language. You’ll see three main colours everywhere—yellow, red, and blue—and they aren’t just decorative. Each corresponds to a major philosophical or religious stream that Caodaism blends: yellow commonly stands for Buddhism, blue for Taoism, and red for Confucianism. That tri-colour motif turns up on flags, ceremony robes, and the temple’s decorations to signal the religion’s idea of spiritual unity: different paths converging toward a single, higher truth. When I watched a noon ceremony, the rows of worshippers in different coloured robes felt like a living diagram of that syncretic theology. There are also textual and formal symbols that matter. The name itself—'Cao Đài'—literally points to the ‘High Tower’ or the ‘Highest Power,’ a way of naming God that stresses transcendence. Caodaists often invoke the phrase 'Tam Kỳ Phổ Độ' (the Third Period of Universal Salvation), which frames the movement as a new era in a lineage of spiritual dispensations; you’ll see these words on banners and seals. The temple seals, flags and altarpieces mix Chinese characters, Vietnamese script, and occasionally Western iconography because Caodaism openly honours a pantheon of saints and sages from many cultures—Confucius, Buddha, Jesus, and even modern figures sometimes appear in its spiritual roster. That pluralism is itself a symbolic message: the divine is accessible through many cultural faces. Finally, the ritual objects—incense holders, drums, gongs, and the tiered altars—carry symbolic layers too. Altars are often stacked in levels representing heaven, earth and humanity; the music and ritual cadence symbolize cosmic harmony; and the organised seating (with strict colours and ranks) visualises social and spiritual order. If you like the little details: the way morning light hits the Divine Eye during services, or the tiny embroidered motifs on red and blue robes, they all reinforce a theology that is theatrical, colourful, and intensely symbolic. I love that mix of grand, universal ideas and everyday tactile symbols—when you step back, Caodaism feels like a living collage of spiritual language, inviting you to read meaning in colour, image, and ritual rather than a single dogmatic text. If you ever get the chance, watch a ceremony and see which symbol calls to you first — it says a lot about what you’re drawn to.

I still get a little thrill thinking about the first time I walked into the Tây Ninh Holy See — that riot of color and the all-seeing eye above the altar made a lot more sense once I dug into how Caodaism began. It didn't pop up out of nowhere; it grew in southern Vietnam during the early 20th century as a grassroots spiritual movement. People were already experimenting with spirit communication, drawing on local folk religions and Western spiritism, and mediums began reporting messages from a supreme being they called Cao Đài. Those séances and spirit messages slowly coalesced into a structured faith. What fascinates me is how intentionally syncretic it was. Influences from Buddhism, Taoism, Confucian ethics, Christianity, and even elements of French colonial modernity blended together. Leaders like Ngô Văn Chiêu, Phạm Công Tắc, and others helped codify rituals and texts, and by the mid-1920s a more organized community had formed around Tây Ninh. The movement was as much social and political response to colonial upheaval as it was spiritual searching, which is why the temple architecture, costumes, and liturgy feel both traditional and surprisingly modern when you stand inside.

I get a kick out of how ritual calendars mix history and the living rhythms of a community, and Caodaism is a great example. From what I’ve seen and from conversations with people who visit Tây Ninh and local Caodaist temples, the big festivals aren’t rigidly fixed to the Western calendar — most follow the Vietnamese lunar calendar or commemorate key historical events from the religion’s founding in the 1920s. So, if you’re asking when Caodaiists mark their major festivals each year, the short beat is: major days fall around the lunar New Year (Tết), anniversaries connected to the religion’s foundation and the Holy See, and a handful of saintly or divine anniversaries determined by the lunar dates associated with revelations or temple consecrations. I like to think of Caodaism’s year as a weave of daily discipline and a few big annual moments. On the daily side there’s the distinctive schedule of three large communal prayers (around 6:00, 12:00, and 18:00) that shape worship life, but the true big gatherings cluster around a few occasions. The founding of the movement (often called the ‘Khai Đạo’ or ‘Opening of the Way’ ceremony tied to 1926) is observed every year and is treated as a central festival — usually sometime in the autumn months by the Gregorian calendar, but the exact public observance can vary by temple. Tết (the lunar New Year) is another huge time for Caodaists: many temples hold special services, ancestor rites, and open-house style ceremonies that bring families together. Beyond those, Caodai communities mark anniversaries of the Tây Ninh Holy See (the movement’s principal temple and administrative center) and various anniversaries associated with spirit-revelations, enthronements, and the birthdays of major figures in the Caodai pantheon. Because these latter dates are often recorded on the lunar calendar, they drift when translated to the Gregorian dates — so a festival that appears in January one year might fall in February the next. If you want to attend, the practical tip I always pass along is to check the local temple’s posted schedule or contact the Holy See’s office around December–January for an English-friendly schedule of the upcoming year. I love how this calendar ties the cosmic (spirit communications and pantheon anniversaries) to the ordinary (family reunions at Tết). If you’re planning a visit or want exact Gregorian dates for this year’s celebrations, shoot a message to a Tây Ninh temple or look for Vietnamese-language temple calendars online — they usually list the lunar dates and the corresponding Western dates. I’m curious which festival you’d like to see in person; the pageantry at the Tây Ninh Holy See during a major ceremony is something else.

Stepping into the courtyard of the 'Cao Đài Holy See' felt like walking into a painting that refuses to stay in one tradition. The building hits you first — riotous gold and pastel mosaics, dragons coiling around pillars, that famous all-seeing eye perched above the main altar. To me, Caodaism's visual vocabulary is its greatest storyteller: it borrows pagoda roofs and Catholic altars, splashes colonial-era portraiture next to lacquer-work saints, and dresses everything in the three primary colors that signal its syncretic roots. I love how the robes and banners feel theatrical — rank and role are communicated through color and cut, which makes every ceremony a moving fresco. Craftspeople keep techniques alive here too: lacquer, mother-of-pearl inlay, silk embroidery and hand-painted murals all get new life because of temple patronage and pilgrims who want keepsakes. That blend of folk craft and cosmopolitan iconography is something I still sketch when I get home — the eye motif and the way light hits gilded surfaces are hypnotic. Music inside Cao Đài ceremonies surprised me more than the visuals. The services weave Western-style harmonies and choral arrangements with Vietnamese modal melodies and percussion patterns. There's a choir-sounding familiar to anyone who’s been to a Catholic mass, but the tunes — often labeled 'thánh ca' — are written in Vietnamese with phrases that loop like a folksong. Instruments vary: I’ve heard reed-like tones, brass, and even organ-like accompaniment alongside traditional strings and drums. The rhythmic sections (hand drums, cymbals, bells) give certain parts of the liturgy a trance-like propulsion, which then softens into high, sustained chants. The effect is both ceremonial and surprisingly modern; composers in early 20th-century Vietnam who engaged with Caodai music helped pioneer a kind of sacred music that mixed Western scoring with local melodic sensibilities. I’ve tracked down old manuscripts and recordings — they’re treasure troves for anyone fascinated by cultural fusion in music. Beyond temples and choirs, Caodaism spills into contemporary Vietnamese culture in small ways that I adore. Filmmakers use its color palette to signal spiritual worlds, designers riff on robe patterns in streetwear, and local artists borrow its symbolic layering when they want to discuss identity and history. The religion’s ceremonies also sustain local economies — craftspeople, calligraphers, and musicians get commissions that keep traditional skills alive. On a quieter note, watching a ritual at dusk — incense smoke, a choir fading out, the sun hitting a painted saint’s face — always leaves me feeling like I’m witnessing a living collage. If you like art or music that refuses to be tidy, a pilgrimage to a Caodai temple offers a masterclass in how cultures remix and keep each other alive.

Growing up in my thirties with a Cao Đài temple a short bike ride away, the rhythms of daily ritual became as familiar as the weather. Most followers, whether they make the journey to a main temple or keep a quiet altar at home, observe a clear cadence: three formal services each day—early morning, midday, and late afternoon/evening. At the temple those services are very structured: devotees enter in modest white clothing, shoes off, and head toward the central hall where the Divine Eye watches from the altar. The service opens with the striking of gongs and wooden clappers, the lighting of incense and candles, and a sequence of bows. Clergy in colorful robes process in according to rank, and then there’s chanting—often in Vietnamese mixed with Sino-Vietnamese phrases—recitations of scripture, and music played on traditional instruments. Offerings of fruit, flowers, and symbolic food items are made at the altar, and the congregation listens or sings along in call-and-response parts. The whole thing feels very ceremonially precise but also intimate, because a lot of the movements—how many bows to make, which prayers to say—are taught at home and passed down in small family settings. At home, daily practice tends to be simpler but no less meaningful. Many households maintain a small altar where morning and evening incense is lit; tea, fruit, or small dishes are offered, and short prayers or invocations are spoken. People often recite moral teachings and remind themselves of ethical precepts that guide behavior. There are also calendar rhythms—special full-hall services on certain lunar dates that draw large crowds to the main temples, and many followers observe vegetarian meals or food restrictions on particular holy days. I’ve joined a 1st or 15th-of-the-lunar-month service a handful of times, and you can immediately tell the difference: more elaborate offerings, special robes, and an almost festival-like air that still retains deep solemnity. For those who are more involved, study groups and scripture reading are common; the religion blends threads from Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, Christianity, and spiritualism, so people often spend time learning the teachings that resonate most with them. There are a few practical etiquettes and lesser-known aspects I’ve noticed that make attending easier and more respectful. Wear white or modest clothing if you can, keep voices low, and observe how others move and respond in the hall—the bowing cadence, when to stand or sit, and when to join a chant. Some temples also offer spiritist consultations and mediums as part of their broader practice, which can be surprising if you’re expecting only classical liturgy; in my experience these elements coexist alongside formal prayer and charity work. Above all, personal devotion shows itself in small routines: lighting incense each morning, mentally dedicating good deeds, and taking part in community gatherings when possible. If you ever get the chance, go watch a service at a local temple—sit near the back, breathe in the incense, and let the rhythm sink in; it gave me one of those quietly grounding moments that stuck with me.

When I first wandered into a Cao Đài temple on a humid afternoon, what struck me wasn't just the rainbow eye on the altar but the stacks of neatly bound booklets on a side table — those are the living guides for most adherents. At the center of everything is the canon broadly known as 'Kinh Thiên Đạo và Thế Đạo', which collects the movement's core revelations and teachings. People study it for doctrine and for the historical record of how the faith's messages were received. Alongside that, most temples keep a larger body of 'thánh ngôn' — the divine messages channeled through mediums and compiled as 'Thánh Ngôn Hiệp Tuyền' — those texts feel very immediate: they're often quoted in sermons, used in personal reflection, and shape the ethical tone of the community because they are regarded as direct communications from figures like Buddha, Jesus, Lao-tzu, and others. There’s also the practical stuff that priests and devoted laypeople pore over: 'Luật Tổ' (the Church’s laws, liturgical rules, and organizational statutes) and ritual manuals that explain how services are conducted. I learned to follow specific prayers and gestures from those books; elders would point to a passage and gently correct my rhythm during chanting. For ordinary believers, smaller prayer books, hymnals, and short catechisms are the everyday companions — the ones you actually carry to temple, learn by heart, and read at dawn before heading to work. For those studying more deeply, there are commentaries, historical chronicles of the movement, and collections of sermons that unpack symbolism and ethical directives. What I find most human about these texts is how they interact: the grand revelations set the spiritual map, the 'thánh ngôn' add ongoing, personal guidance, and the 'luật' keep the community functioning. Outside the formal books, oral teachings, local temple customs, and seasonal ritual leaflets matter a lot too. When I sit in the courtyard between services, I see a teenager flipping through a pocket prayer book, an elderly woman tracing characters in a well-worn 'Thánh Ngôn', and a young officiant consulting the 'Luật Tổ' before a ceremony — it’s this blend of scripture, lived practice, and everyday devotion that really defines how Cao Đài people study and live their faith.

Seeing the rainbow-striped robes and the giant Divine Eye above the altar, I felt like I walked into a religious mixtape—one that somehow made perfect sense in Vietnam's cultural rhythm. Caodaism (often spelled Cao Dai) is basically a deliberate mashup: it proposes one supreme source of spiritual truth while recognizing many historical figures and teachings as partial revelations of that one reality. So you get the moral and metaphysical bits from Buddhism (karma, rebirth, compassion), the cosmological and harmony-focused ideas from Taoism (balance, the flow of life), and the organizational and Christ-centered imagery from Christianity (a single, almighty God, liturgical structures, references to Jesus). But the real charm is how they’re layered together rather than fused into a bland soup—each tradition keeps its flavor but is served on the same altar. On a doctrinal level, Caodaism speaks of a single, supreme divinity—often translated as the ‘Highest Power’—while accepting that different prophets and sages have revealed aspects of that truth. So Buddha, Laozi, Confucius, Jesus, and even modern cultural figures are honored as saints or spiritual teachers. That allows Buddhist ideas like reincarnation and karmic law to coexist with Christian language about salvation and God's will. Ritual practice pulls from different toolkits: the movement uses a highly ceremonial, almost Catholic-like clerical hierarchy (with robes, ranks, and formal services) and organ music, but the moral teaching and meditative practices can feel very Buddhist or Daoist. There’s also a strong spiritist element—visions and spirit communications were crucial to the religion’s founding—and that explains why the pantheon feels so eclectic: the spirits themselves named a wide range of historical figures as part of the faith. Architecturally and visually it’s a striking blend—Tây Ninh’s Holy See looks like a Hindu-Asian cathedral that borrowed Gothic windows and painted them in tropical palettes. Inside you’ll find shrines with images or references to Jesus alongside Buddha and Lao Tzu, incense and hymn-singing, and ceremonial schedules that echo both Eastern temple rhythms and Western liturgy. Politically and socially, the movement also made sense in its era: emerging in colonial Vietnam, it gave people a shared spiritual identity that combined familiar traditional beliefs with new ideas, and it had nationalist undertones too. That syncretic flexibility has helped it adapt; different Caodaist sects emphasize different sources more heavily—some leaning more Buddhist or Taoist, others leaning into the Catholic-like hierarchy. If you approach Caodaism as I did—part curious traveler, part skeptical reader—you notice it’s less about strict theological purity and more about practical spiritual synthesis. It answers the question: how can people with diverse religious backgrounds find a common spiritual home? For me, standing in that temple and hearing hymns while smelling incense, it felt like a deliberate cultural conversation between East and West. If you’re curious, check out the Tây Ninh Holy See in photos or seek out firsthand accounts and scholarly overviews to see how rituals and teachings vary by community; it’s one of those traditions that rewards a close, on-the-ground look rather than a quick summary, and I still find new little contradictions and harmonies every time I read about it.

Walking into a Cao Đài temple for the first time, what hits you first is the color. The clergy's robes are a visual language: long, flowing tunics that sit over trousers, often cut like a Vietnamese áo dài but heavier and more ceremonial. In Tây Ninh, where I spent a sweaty afternoon watching the noon service, the fabric is satin or fine silk and it catches the light so the Divine Eye embroidered on the chest almost seems to glow. Headgear is a big part of the look too — soft turbans or more sculpted hats depending on rank — and the whole effect is both courtly and devotional, a deliberate blend of Vietnamese, Buddhist, Taoist and Catholic-inspired forms. Ranks are signaled through color blocks, accessories, and little heraldic touches. You’ll see bands of color on sleeves, sashes, and sometimes epaulet-like decorations; higher clergy often have additional embroidery, more intricate metal badges, or multiple stars on a chest plaque. The Divine Eye motif is everywhere, but for senior members that badge will be more elaborate — think layered embroidery, gold thread, or a larger medallion. Women’s robes follow the same color system but are cut slightly differently: narrower sleeves, different headwrap styles, and sometimes subtler insignia. Lay adherents usually wear plain white during services, which makes the colored robes pop even more. I love watching the way all of this functions in ritual: the monks and priests arrange themselves by color and rank, and from a distance it looks like a living stained-glass window. If you’re trying to decode who’s who, look for three clues — robe color (which often indicates the spiritual lineage or branch), headgear shape (taller or more ornate hats typically mean higher status), and the complexity of chest/belt insignia (more stars, embroidered borders, or metalwork = higher rank). Every temple has local quirks too; some modern congregations simplify insignia for practicality, while the main Holy See preserves the full parade of regalia. I still get a little thrill when the senior clergy step forward: centuries of symbolism packed into cloth and tiny metal stars, all telling a story about hierarchy, history, and devotion.