I will live the present moment to the fullest.
I will discern between God and God’s works.
I will hold firmly to one secret: prayer.
I will see in the Holy Eucharist my only power.
I will have only one wisdom: the science of the Cross.
I will remain faithful to my mission in the Church and for the Church as a witness of Jesus Christ.
I will seek the peace the world cannot give.
I will carry out a revolution by renewal in the Holy Spirit.
I will speak one language and wear one uniform: Charity.
I will have one very special love: The Blessed Virgin Mary.
-Cardinal Nguyen Van Thuan
The other day I sat down and watched a documentary about Cardinal Nguyen Van Thuan, who was born in Vietnam in 1928. When Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese Army he was imprisoned for 13 years, nine of which he spent in a tiny room by himself with a just one light bulb that often flickered off for days. He would smuggle out messages and reflections to his people.
He was eventually exiled to Rome and was often asked to speak about his experience. I was trying to write it up myself but I think his own words are far more beautiful and humbling. Read a little or read a lot:
"It is true. All prisoners, myself included, constantly wait to be let
go. I decided then and there that my captivity would not be merely a
time of resignation but a turning point in my life. I decided I would
not wait. I would live the present moment and fill it with love. For if I
wait, the things I wait for will never happen. The only thing that I
can be sure of is that I am going to die.
No, I will not spend time waiting. I will live the present moment and fill it with love.
A straight line consists of millions of little points. Likewise, a
lifetime consists of millions of seconds and minutes joined together. If
every single point along the line is rightly set, the line will be
straight. If every minute of a life is good, that life will be holy.
Alone in my prison cell, I continued to be tormented by the fact that
I was forty-eight years old, in the prime of my life, that I had worked
for eight years as a bishop and gained so much pastoral experience and
there I was isolated, inactive and far from my people.
One night, from the depths of my heart I could hear a voice advising
me: "Why torment yourself? You must discern between God and the works of
God - everything you have done and desire to continue to do, pastoral
visits, training seminarians, sisters and members of religious orders,
building schools, evangelising non-Christians. All of that is excellent
work, the work of God but it is not God! If God wants you to give it all
up and put the work into his hands, do it and trust him. God will do
the work infinitely better than you; he will entrust the work to others
who are more able than you. You have only to choose God and not the
works of God!"
This light totally changed my way of thinking. When the Communists put me in the hold of the boat, the
Hai-Phong,
along with 1500 other prisoners and moved us to the North, I said to
myself, "Here is my cathedral, here are the people God has given me to
care for, here is my mission: to ensure the presence of God among these,
my despairing, miserable brothers. It is God's will that I am here. I
accept his will". And from that minute onwards, a new peace filled my
heart and stayed with me for thirteen years.
"Were you able to say Mass in prison?" is a question I have been
asked many, many times. And when I say "Yes", I can foretell the next
question, "How did you get the bread and wine?"
I was taken to prison empty-handed. Later on, I was allowed to
request the strict necessities like clothing, toothpaste, etc. I wrote
home saying "Send me some wine as medication for stomach pains". On the
outside, the faithful understood what I meant.
They sent me a little bottle of Mass wine, with a label reading
"medication for stomach pains", as well as some hosts broken into small
pieces.
The police asked me: "Do you have pains in your stomach?" "Yes." "Here is some medicine for you!"
I will never be able to express the joy that was mine: each day, with
three drops of wine, a drop of water in the palm of my hand, I
celebrated my Mass.
The six Catholics in my group of 50 prisoners tried to stay together.
We lined up the boards we were given as beds; they were about 20 inches
wide. We slept close together in order to be able to pray during the
night.
At 9.30 every evening when lights out rang everyone had to be lying
down. I bent over my wooden board and celebrated Mass, by heart of
course, and distributed Communion to my neighbours under their mosquito
nets. We made tiny bags from cigarette paper to protect the Blessed
Sacrament.
At night, the prisoners took turns and spent time in adoration. The
Blessed Sacrament helped tremendously. Even Buddhists and other
non-Christians were converted. The strength of the love of Jesus is
irresistible. The darkness of the prison turned into light, the seed
germinated silently in the storm.
One day I told a Communist cadre who was criticising the Church: "We
have two different meanings for the same words. If you sincerely wish to
understand the Church, to dialogue with Catholics, I propose to write
an index of religious vocabulary in Latin, French, English, Italian,
Spanish and Chinese with Vietnamese definitions. If you accept my offer,
please give me some paper and a pen. He agreed and I began.
When the cadre returned, I explained a few words of the index to him,
the meanings, the history and development of the Church, for instance,
what is an abbot or what does monastical life involve, e.g., silence,
poverty, obedience, chastity, fasting, manual work, pastoral and
intellectual work, etc. His curiosity was aroused. Very slowly, I
continued to explain the index, a kind of intensive catechism for
Communist cadres! It was a way to dialogue in truth and love instead of
debate and criticism.
I did the same with my guards who asked me to teach them foreign
languages. They brought me French books. While teaching them French
history, civilization, literature and culture, I was able to explain the
impact of the gospel on France and on European history and its culture.
When I began to discern between God and God's works, when I chose God
and His will and left everything else in His hands, and when I learned
to love others, especially my enemies as Jesus loved me, I felt great
peace in my heart. Deprived of freedom, of absolutely everything and
living in extreme poverty in my dark cell, I was at peace because I
could say, "My God and my all". The peace that the world cannot give
brought me great joy.
Prisoners held captive for very long periods, without trial and in
oppressive conditions, retain bitter memories and sentiments of hate and
vengeance. That's a normal reaction. I was in prison for 13 years, nine
of which were in solitary confinement. Two guards watched me but never
spoke to me; just yes and no. But I knew that after all, they were my
brothers and I had to be kind to them. I had no gift to offer as a
prisoner I had nothing at all, nothing to please them. What to do?
One night, a thought came. "You are still very rich. You have the
love of Christ in your heart. Love them as Jesus loves you". The next
day I set to work, first, by showing gladness and by smiling. I began to
tell stories about my journeys in countries where people live in
freedom and enjoy their culture and great technical progress. That
stimulated their curiosity and they asked many, many questions. Slowly,
very slowly, we became friends.
They wanted to learn foreign languages. My guards became my disciples! The atmosphere of the prison changed considerably.
At that time, in another part of the area, a group of twenty people
were learning Latin to be able to read Church documents. Their teacher
was a former catechist. One of my guards was in the Latin class and one
day he asked me if I could teach him songs in Latin.
"There are so many ", I replied, "and they are all so beautiful". "You sing and I'll choose," he retorted.
And so I sang
Salve Regina, Salve Mater, Lauda Sion, Veni Creator, Ave Maris Stella. You'll never guess the song he chose. The
Veni Creator!
I can't begin to tell you how moving it is to be in a Communist prison
and hear your guard, coming down the stairs at seven every morning on
his way to the gymnastics yard for physical exercises, singing the
Veni Creator.
While at prison in Vinh-Quang in the mountains of North Vietnam, I
was sawing wood one afternoon. I asked my ever-present guard, who had
become my friend, if I could ask him for a favour. "What is it? I'll
help you."
"I want to saw off a small piece of wood in the form of a cross."
"Don't you know that's strictly forbidden to have any sign of religion
whatsoever?" "I promise to keep it hidden." "But it would be extremely
dangerous for the both of us." "Close your eyes, I'll do it right now
and I'll be very careful."
He turned his back and left me alone. I sawed a small cross which I
later hid in a piece of melted down soap. I have kept it always and had
it mounted in a piece of metal and it has become my pectoral cross.
In another prison in Hanoi, I became friends with my guard and was
able to request a piece of metal wire. He was terrified. "I studied in
the University of Police that when someone wants electric wire he want
is to kill himself!," he cried.
I explained that Christians, and most of all priests, do not commit suicide.
"And so what are you going to do with electric wire?", he asked.
"I need a chain to wear my cross." "But how can you make a chain from
wire?" "If you bring me two little pincers, I'll show you." "Much too
dangerous!" "But we're friends!"
He hesitated and finally said, "It's too hard to refuse. Tonight at
7pm we'll do it. But we have to finish before 11. I'll have my companion
take the evening off. If he knew, he'd denounce the both of us". That
evening, with the tools he brought, we cut and shaped and worked
together to make my chain and we finished it before 11pm!
This cross and chain are not only my souvenir of captivity, as
precious as that may seem. They are a constant reminder that only
Christian charity can bring about a change of heart. Not arms, not
threats, not the media. It was very hard for my guards to understand
when I spoke about loving our enemies, reconciliation and forgiveness.
"Do you really love us?" "Yes, I really love you." "Even when we
cause you pain? When you suffer because you're in prison without trial?"
"Look at all the years we've spent together. Of course, I love you!"
"And when you get out, will you tell your people to find us and beat us
and hurt our families?" "I'll continue to love you even if you wish to
kill me." "But why?" "Because Jesus taught us to love always; if we
don't, we are no longer worthy to be called Christians."
There is not enough time to tell you all the other moving stories which are proof of the liberating power of the love of Jesus.
The harsh years in prison pass very slowly. While suffering
humiliation and abandonment, my only support and hope was the love of
Mary, Our Blessed Mother. The wonderful servants of Mary - St Louis de
Montfort, Don Bosco, Maximilian Kolbe - were my companions on the road
of hope. They inspired me and gave me unwavering trust in the love of
Mary, the Queen of the Apostles and Martyrs.
I said this prayer to Mary: "Mary, my Mother, if you know that I
cannot be of any more use to the Church, grant me the grace to die here
in prison and consummate my sacrifice. If you know that I can still be
of use to the Church, grant me the grace of freedom on one of your feast
days".
In fact, on 21 November 1988, I was cooking my meal when I heard my
guard being called to the phone. I had an idea it might be because of
me. A few minutes after, the guard called to me. "Mr Thuan, have you
finished eating?" "No, not yet." "Right after your meal, go and see the
chief - and good luck!" I was taken to meet the Minister of Police and
after a brief conversation, he asked, "Do you wish to express any
request?" "Yes, Mr Minister, I wish to be let free!" "When?" "Today!"
The Minister feigned surprise, but I knew the day had come. It was
the Feast of the Presentation of Mary in the Temple and she was
answering my prayer.
To counter the Minister's surprise I replied, "You see, Mr Minister, I
have been in prison for three pontificates: Paul VI, John Paul I, John
Paul II. I have been here during the offices of four Secretary Generals
of the Communist Party, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko and Gorbachev."
His eyes opened wide. "Yes", that's right. All right. Your request is granted. You are free.""
Cardinal Nguyen Van Thuan was eventually appointed as President to the Pontifical Council of Justice and Peace, and under his guidance a compendium of the Social Teaching of the Catholic Church was compiled. He died of cancer on September 16, 2002.
