Caodaism feels like an early-20th-century quest to merge distant worlds into a single tapestry. From the East, it borrows the compassionate heart of Mahāyāna Buddhism, the ritual precision and cosmic yin-yang balance of Taoism, plus Confucian respect for hierarchy and family ties. Buddhist bodhisattvas share space on altars with Taoist immortals, while ancestors are honored alongside divine figures—a nod to Vietnam’s enduring filial piety.

On the Western side, Caodaism borrows heavily from Catholicism: a three-tiered clergy that mirrors pope, cardinals and priests; liturgical rites sung in Latin and Vietnamese; even vestments reminiscent of cassocks. The Christian emphasis on forgiveness and charitable action echoes in Caodaist social projects. French Spiritism, popular in colonial Indochina, also seeps in through spirit-writing séances, allowing followers to “chat” with Shakespeare, Victor Hugo or Confucius in regular séances—a quirky bridge between worlds.

Altars in Tay Ninh showcase this “best of both” approach: Chinese dragons flank stained-glass windows depicting Christ, while the all-seeing Divine Eye casts its gaze above a triple rainbow arch. Daily devotionals might involve the Buddhist chant “A Di Đà Phật” followed by the Lord’s Prayer in French. Festivals blend the exuberance of Vesak with Christmas carols at dawn, creating a calendar that never skips a beat.

Modern life has only amplified these juxtapositions. A Caodaist temple in California might host a Zoom meditation retreat one day, then screen a TED Talk on social justice the next. Young adherents see it as a spiritual Melting Pot—much like today’s streaming-era playlists that shuffle K-pop alongside jazz. In an age craving interfaith solidarity, Caodaism’s bold fusion still feels fresh, proving that traditions can cross oceans while keeping their soul intact.