In the city of Wuchang in the province of Hubei in China, Saint John Gabriel Perboyre, priest of the Congregation of the Mission and martyr, who, to preach the Gospel, took on the appearance and customs of the place; but when persecution came, he was held in prison for a long time and afflicted with various torments, and at last was hung upon a cross and strangled with a cord.
Lifespan: 1802–1840
Beatified: 10 November 1889 by Pope Leo XIII
Canonized: 2 June 1996 by Pope John Paul II, Saint Peter’s Square
Memoria liturgica: 11 September
“Non so cosa mi aspetta nel cammino che si apre davanti a me: senza dubbio la croce, che è il pane quotidiano del missionario. Cosa ci si può augurare di meglio, andando a predicare un Dio crocifisso?”
“I do not know what awaits me on the road that opens before me: without doubt the cross, which is the daily bread of the missionary. What better can one hope for, going out to preach a crucified God?”
John Gabriel Perboyre was born at Montgesty, near Cahors, in southern France, on 6 January 1802, into a family that gave the Church three Vincentian missionaries and two Daughters of Charity. In such an environment he breathed in the faith, simple and wholesome values, and a sense of life as gift.
In adolescence, the One who “calls by name” seemed to overlook him. He turned instead to his younger brother Louis, encouraging him to enter the seminary. John Gabriel was asked to accompany his younger brother for a time, while the boy settled into his new surroundings. He had ended up there by chance, and was expected to leave before long. But that chance unveiled unexpected horizons before the astonished young man’s eyes; and so it was that in the seminary he found his path.
The Church in France had just emerged from the experience of the French Revolution — with vestments dyed purple by the martyrdom of some, but with the sorrow of the apostasy of many. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the landscape was desolate: buildings destroyed, convents pillaged, souls without shepherds. It was no coincidence, then, that the priestly ideal appeared to the young man not as a comfortable arrangement for life, but as the destiny of heroes.
His parents, though surprised, accepted their son’s choice and supported him with their encouragement. His paternal uncle James had himself been a Vincentian missionary, and this helps explain why, in 1818, the missionary ideal took firm root in the young John Gabriel. At that time the mission meant above all China. But China was a distant mirage. To depart meant never again breathing the atmosphere of home, savouring its fragrances, enjoying its affections. It was natural for him to choose the Congregation of the Mission, founded by Saint Vincent de Paul in 1625 to evangelize the poor, to form the clergy, and above all to lead its own missionaries to holiness. Mission is not propaganda. The Church has always demanded that heralds of the Word be persons of interior life, mortified, filled with God and with charity. To illumine the darkness of mankind, a lamp alone does not suffice if there is no oil.
John Gabriel did not think in half-measures. He became a martyr because he was a saint.
From 1818 to 1835 he was a missionary in his homeland. During his period of formation he was a model novice and student; after his priestly ordination in 1826 he was entrusted with the formation of seminarians.
A new development — scarcely accidental — came to reshape his life. Once again his brother Louis stood at the centre. Louis had also entered the Congregation of the Mission and had asked to be sent to China, where the sons of Saint Vincent had meanwhile gained a new martyr in the person of Blessed Francis Régis Clet (18 February 1820). But during the voyage the young Louis, barely twenty-four years old, was called to the mission of heaven.
All that John Gabriel had hoped and accomplished would have come to nothing, had he not applied to take his brother’s place in the breach.
John Gabriel reached China in August 1835. At that time the West knew almost nothing of the Celestial Empire, and the ignorance was mutual. The two worlds were drawn toward each other, yet dialogue was difficult. In European countries there was talk not of a Chinese civilization but only of superstitions, of “ridiculous” rites and customs. Judgements were, in truth, prejudices. The appraisal that China had of Europe and of Christianity was no better.
Between the two civilizations there lay a dark chasm. Someone had to cross it, to take upon himself the evil of many and to burn it away in charity.
After settling at Macao, John Gabriel undertook a long journey by junk, on foot, and on horseback, which brought him eight months later to Nanyang in Henan, where he set himself to learning the language.
Within five months he was able to express himself, with some effort, in passable Chinese, and at once threw himself into the ministry, visiting the small Christian communities. He was then transferred to Hubei, which forms part of the lake region shaped by the Yangtze River. Despite an intense apostolate, he suffered greatly in body and spirit. In a letter he wrote: “No, I am not a man who works wonders here in China, any more than I did in France… Pray for my conversion and my sanctification, and for the grace not to spoil too greatly the work God has begun.” To an outside observer it was inconceivable that so zealous a missionary should find himself in a dark night of the soul. But the Holy Spirit was preparing him — in the void of humility and in the silence of God — for the supreme witness.
Suddenly in 1839 two events, apparently unconnected, came to disturb the horizon. The first was the outbreak of persecution, following the proscription of the Christian religion decreed in 1794 by the Manchurian Emperor Qianlong (r. 1736–1795). The second was the outbreak of the Sino-British war, better known as the Opium War (1839–1842). China’s closure of its borders and its government’s demand for an act of submission from foreign ambassadors had created an explosive situation. The spark was provided by the seizure of opium cargoes stored in the port of Canton, to the detriment of merchants who were for the most part British. The British fleet intervened, and war followed.
The missionaries, concerned naturally only with the first of these events, were ever on the alert. As so often happens, too many alarms had begun to dull their vigilance. That is what occurred on 16 September 1839 at Cha-yuan-ken, where Perboyre was residing. On that day he was with two other European missionaries — his confrère Baldus and the Franciscan Rizzolati — and a Chinese missionary, Father Wang. Word came of a column of some hundred soldiers approaching. The missionaries underestimated the report. Perhaps the soldiers were heading elsewhere. And instead of taking precautions they continued to enjoy a fraternal conversation.
When the soldiers’ direction could no longer be doubted, it was too late. Baldus and Rizzolati decided to flee to safety. Perboyre chose to hide nearby, since the surrounding hills were rich in bamboo forests and concealed caves. The soldiers, however, with threats — as Father Baldus later testified — forced a catechumen to reveal the place where the missionary lay hidden. The man was weak, but he was no Judas.
The sorrowful Calvary of John Gabriel had begun. The prisoner had no rights, was unprotected by law, and was at the mercy of his jailers and judges. Since he was under arrest he was presumed guilty, and if guilty he could be punished.
The series of trials began. The first was held at Kou-Ching-Hien. The martyr’s answers were memorable: “Are you a Christian priest?” — “Yes, I am a priest and I preach this religion.” — “Will you renounce your faith?” — “I will never renounce the faith of Christ.” They demanded that he betray his fellow believers and explain why he had transgressed the laws of China. The intent was to transform the victim into the guilty party. But a witness of Christ is not an informer.
Therefore he was silent.
The prisoner was then transferred to Siang-yang. The interrogations became relentless. He was kept for several hours kneeling on rusted iron chains; he was suspended by his thumbs and hair from a beam — the torture known as the hangzhe — and beaten repeatedly with bamboo rods. But more wounding than the physical violence was the mockery directed at the very values he held dear: the hope of eternal life, the sacraments, the faith.
The third trial was held at Wuchang. He was summoned before four different tribunals and subjected to twenty interrogations. The questions were accompanied by torture and the most savage derision. The missionary was on trial, but all the while the man himself was being trampled. Some Christians were coerced into apostasy, and some of these were even made to spit on and strike the missionary who had brought them the faith. For refusing to trample the crucifix he received a hundred and ten blows of the bamboo.
Among the various charges, the most terrible was the accusation of immoral relations with a young Chinese woman, Anna Kao, who had made a vow of virginity. The martyr defended himself. She was neither his concubine nor his servant. Christianity respects women — it does not vilify them: that was the substance of John Gabriel’s replies. Yet he was troubled that innocent people were being made to suffer on his account.
During one interrogation he was forced to put on Mass vestments. The intent was to accuse him of exploiting the prestige of the priesthood for personal ends. But the missionary, robed in his sacerdotal vestments, made a deep impression on those present, and two Christians approached him to ask for absolution.
The most cruel judge was the viceroy. The missionary was by now a shadow of himself. This unscrupulous man’s fury was unleashed upon a wraith of a man. Blinded by his own omnipotence, he wanted confessions, admissions, denunciations. But while the body was weak, the soul had grown strong. His hope was now the encounter with God, whom each day he felt drawing nearer.
When for the last time John Gabriel said to him, “I would sooner die than deny my faith,” the judge pronounced his sentence. It was death by strangulation.
A period of waiting began for imperial confirmation of the sentence. There was perhaps reason to hope for the sovereign’s clemency. But the war with the British extinguished any possible gesture of mercy. And so, on 11 September 1840, an imperial messenger arrived at full gallop bearing the decree confirming the condemnation.
Together with seven brigands the missionary was led to a height called the “Red Mountain.” The brigands were executed first, and Perboyre gathered himself in prayer, to the astonishment of those present.
When his turn came, the executioners stripped him of his crimson tunic and bound him to a stake in the form of a cross. They passed a cord around his neck and strangled him. It was the sixth hour. Like Jesus, John Gabriel died as the grain of wheat dies. He died — or rather, was born into heaven — to bring down upon the earth the dew of God’s blessing.
Many circumstances of his detention — the betrayal, the arrest, death upon a cross, the day and the hour — draw him close to the Passion of Christ. In truth, his entire life was that of a faithful witness and disciple of Christ. Saint Ignatius of Antioch wrote:
“I seek him who died for us; I want him who rose for us. See, the moment draws near when I shall be brought to birth! Have compassion on me, brothers! Do not prevent me from being born to life!”
John Gabriel was “born to life” on 11 September 1840, because he had always sought “him who died for us.” His body was brought back to France, but his heart remained in his adopted homeland, in the land of China. It is there that he has given an appointment to the sons and daughters of Saint Vincent, awaiting the day when they too, after a life spent for the Gospel and for the poor, may be born into heaven.