Saint John Đoạn Trinh Hoan

John Đoạn Trinh Hoan was born in 1798 in the village of Kim Long, Phú Xuân, near the imperial city of Huế. His parents were devout Catholics who made their living raising silkworms and weaving silk. The clatter of the loom in the house, the golden skeins of silk, the evening prayers: that was his childhood.

An uncle who was a priest took it upon himself to teach the boy to read and to learn Latin. Seeing that he was bright and devout, the priests sent him all the way to the seminary in Penang, across the sea. A boy from Kim Long, far from home for the first time, studying alongside young men from many lands.

Back in his homeland, the young Hoan was given the task of helping Bishop Taberd, whose Vietnamese name was Từ, translate religious books. It was quiet but precious work: making the catechism, prayers and the Word of God speak in the mother tongue, so that an old woman in the countryside or a buffalo boy could understand.

In 1836 he was ordained a priest in Sài Gòn, just as the persecution under Emperor Minh Mạng was rising. From then on he served in many places. Twenty-five years as a priest, most of them years of hiding, traveling by night, celebrating Mass in houses with the doors shut. But he kept going, because his whole life he had only one wish: to bring God to the Vietnamese, in the words of the Vietnamese.

At the beginning of 1861, Emperor Tự Đức’s court tightened the ban on the faith. Father Hoan came to stay at the house of the parish elder Matthew Nguyễn Văn Phượng, a healer in the community of Sáo Bùn, Quảng Bình, to give the sacraments to the faithful around the area.

Someone reported it to the mandarin. On the evening of January 3, soldiers lay in ambush around the house. Father Hoan crawled into a pile of straw to hide. The soldiers could not find him, so they beat the people of the house to make them talk.

Lying in the straw, he heard everything. He heard the rods, the groans, the shouting. Those people were being beaten in his place. He could keep lying still, and perhaps he would escape.

But a shepherd cannot lie still while his flock is beaten because of him. Father Hoan stepped out of the straw and gave himself up.

He was taken to Đồng Hới together with the elder Phượng and a few others. The mandarin wanted him to step over the cross. The mandarin wanted him to reveal where the bishops and missionaries were hiding. He was tortured many times. He did not step, and did not tell.

The remarkable thing is that in prison he remained gentle and forgiving, without a word of resentment. Little by little, even his guards softened. They let the sisters and the faithful visit, bringing food, medicine, and even the Blessed Sacrament. The bars were still there, but the prison now had God in it.

At dawn on May 26, 1861, the sentence was read out: “The criminal named Hoan, by profession a priest, spreading a perverse religion among the people, is sentenced to beheading.”

Before going to the execution ground, he turned to the Catholics who had come to see him off and said his last words:

“Brothers and sisters, follow my example, as I myself have followed Christ; live in His peace and pray for me.”

That same day, the parish elder Matthew Phượng, who had opened his house to him, was also beheaded. Host and guest went home together to the Father’s house in heaven.

He was beatified on May 2, 1909, and canonized on June 19, 1988. His own feast day is May 26. On his tombstone his family name is written Đoạn, though some documents write it Đoàn.

Father Hoan’s whole life was spent helping others come closer to God: translating books so they could understand, traveling by night so they could receive the sacraments. And at the decisive moment, he did not let anyone suffer in his place.

Perhaps there is no need to look far for a definition of a shepherd. He is the one who steps out of the haystack.