by Joe Nickell
How the liquid could have been ignited is suggested in the account (1:22) that tells how at first the sun was clouded over. Then, when the sun finally shone, the fire blazed forth and everyone marveled. This could be consistent with a small, concave “condensing” mirror, or possibly a “burning glass,” having been secreted among the petroleum-drenched sticks of wood to trigger the fire when the sun's rays were focused on it.
Of course this incident might never actually have happened. When I researched it many years ago, one scientist cautioned that the Maccabean account was apparently written about a century after the events it describes and so may have been little more than a pious legend (Stavroudis 1979). The same may be said of the version involving Elijah, as well as of many other such “miracle” tales.
OTHER TEMPLE IDOLS
Additional stories of ancient wonderworking—in Greek and Roman temples—survive. The great mathematician, engineer, and inventor Hero of Alexandria provided some detailed evidence in his treatise The Pneumatics (ca. 62 CE).
Complete with schematic drawings, Hero describes the mechanistic works of some of his predecessors as well as his own modifications and original inventions. Hydraulics and pneumatics, along with concealed tubing, effected the mechanical miracles.
For example, Hero mentions an ingenious idol used by the ancient Egyptians, described as “Libations on an Altar produced by Fire.” The altar was a heavy pedestal upon which stood the idol, the statue of a goddess holding a vase. When a fire was built upon the altar, presently the figure would—seemingly miraculously—pour out the customary libations upon it. Hero explained that under the fire bowl was an airtight chamber, the air of which expanded as it was heated. This forced the wine from a hidden reservoir up a tube inside the figure and out the vase. As the wine extinguished the fire, the flow stopped (Gibson 1967, 21–22).
He also cited various remarkable automata, for example one that would drink any quantity of liquid presented to it (Hero n. d.; Nickell 1993, 46). As well, he described several magical vases capable of producing miracle effects, like Moses's bowl that turned water to blood (Exodus 4:9), Elijah's cruse that repeatedly refilled itself with oil (1 Kings 17:8–16), and the water pots in which Jesus turned water to wine (John 2:1–11). Possibly, these “miracles” only represent well-known magical effects having been incorporated into the legends of those who supposedly worked miracles.
Belgium's most frequented pilgrimage site is Scherpenheuvel (Dutch for “sharp hill”), in the north-central part of the country. There, in the Middle Ages, stood a great, solitary oak that was visible from all around. The spot was a center of superstitious practices and pagan worship until, in the fourteenth century, a small wooden figure of the Virgin Mary was affixed to the tree, and the makeshift shrine began to gain fame. In time, miracles began to be attributed to the little statue (see figure 2.1).
LEGENDS
The first reputed miracle occurred in 1514, when, according to a pious legend, a shepherd or shepherd boy discovered the figurine lying on the ground and intended to take it home. However, the Virgin Mary miraculously transfixed him—froze him in place—preventing the statue's removal. Subsequently, the shrine became more widely known.
In 1602, a little wooden chapel was built at the site, and the following year a new miracle was reported: the statue wept bloody tears, reportedly in protest over the religious schism then plaguing the Low Countries.
Still another miracle was said to have occurred in 1604 when troops of Archduke Albert (the Spanish-appointed governor of the Low Countries) routed the Protestants and retook Ostend. Albert and his wife, Archduchess Isabella, determined to thank God by commissioning the erection of a monumental baroque basilica at the site, inaugurated in 1627. Albert died in the meantime, but Isabella walked to the inauguration, giving rise to pilgrimages that have continued ever since, supplicants seeking their own miracles in the form of healings and other blessings (Scherpenheuvel n. d.; Scherpenheuvel-Zichem n. d.).
What are we to make of the alleged miracles of Scherpenheuvel? First, we should remember that the site was considered magical before it was taken over by Catholic Christians, part of a common process known as syncretism in which one religion is grafted onto another. (For example, Catholic conquistadors in Mexico erected a shrine to the Virgin Mary on a hill where the Aztecs had a temple to their virgin goddess Tonantzin [Mullen 1998, 6; Smith 1983, 20; Nickell 1993, 29–34; Nickell 2004, 51–55].) In short, one may ask, are the alleged miracles of Scherpenheuvel attributable to the statue of the Virgin, and the power of the Virgin herself, or to pagan deities? Or might there have been no miracles at all?
The story of the transfixed shepherd boy is one of those vague, pious folktales that lack any supporting evidence. If we are prepared to believe a shepherd boy considered taking the statue, we can also believe it was only an attack of conscience that stayed his hand, and the rest of the tale is attributable to exaggeration.
BLOODY TEARS
As to the statue's bloody tears, that figurine was not the same one that had transfixed the shepherd boy. The original had been stolen in 1580, when the region was pillaged by Dutch Protestant iconoclasts (those hostile to the worship of images). In other words, the statue that legendarily saved itself from a shepherd's grasp was unable to stave off marauding anti-idolaters, suggesting that its powers were limited at best. Thus the bloody tears were produced by a replacement statue, and in any case, the phenomenon—judging from numerous modern examples (see chapter 9)—was likely a pious fraud.
The 1604 military victory at Ostend does not seem so miraculous if one adopts the perspective of the Protestants or if one wonders why we should think statues miraculous when desirable things happen (a statue's theft is prevented, a battle won) but not unmiraculous when bad things occur (a statue is stolen, marauders overrun the land).
CONCLUSION
Given the image of the Virgin Mary as healer and protectress (Mullen 1998, 10), it is not surprising that desperate people still seek miracles at Scherpenheuvel, where I have witnessed the votive candles, the fervent prayers, the posted notes beseeching “Moeder Maria” for supernatural assistance. Such help may seem to come to those who count only the good luck; otherwise they discount the bad or even—sad to say—blame themselves for not praying hard enough.
Peru, like all the Americas, was relatively recently settled (an occurrence made possible by the last Ice Age, which allowed humans to cross the now-inundated Bering Land Bridge between present-day Russia and Alaska). A succession of native cultures flourished in various regions and eventually metamorphosed into the Inca Empire. This began in the Andean highlands circa 1200 CE and—by the Spanish Conquest of the 1530s—ranged from Ecuador south to Chile.
Ancient mysteries abound in Peru, several of which I was able to look into prior to speaking at the Second Ibero-American Conference on Critical Thinking held in Lima, August 3–5, 2006. Here I report on the remarkable oracle at the stepped-pyramid complex of Pachacamac.
ORACLE AT PACHACAMAC
In the Lurín Valley, about thirty kilometers south of Lima, stands the sacred citadel of Pachacamac. An extensive archeological site, it is a complex of adobe-brick buildings and pyramids, spanning various ancient cultures. Pachacamac was the dominant pilgrimage center on Peru's central coast and “home to the most feared, and respected, oracle in the Andes” (Wehner and Gaudio 2004, 283).
On August 2, I commissioned a personal tour of the citadel, enlisting a driver and professional guide. Like countless pilgrims of the Wari-Ishmay and later Inca cultures, I walked the sandy streets, climbed the stepped pyramids, and gazed from the heights of Pachacamac (figure 3.1). Albeit for different reasons, I, too, was in quest of the mysterious oracle.
At this Andean citadel, the god Pachacamac—whose name in the Incan language, Quechua, means “Lord of the World”—reigned supreme. According to native mythology, Pachacamac, the Creator, took as his wife Urpiwachak, who was goddess of fish and birds. (A pyramid temple with her nam
e stands in the northwest part of the city near a now-dry lagoon.) Among Pachacamac's countless roles were protector of food, controller of earthquakes, and healer of diseases (Pachakamaq n. d., 35).
Few details are known about the oracle, but one naturally thinks of Ancient Greece's Oracle of Delphi. There, worshipers believed, the Pythian priestesses channeled the god Apollo after inhaling the fumes and drinking the waters of a bubbling spring that ran beneath the temple. According to Owen S. Rachleff, in his The Occult Conceit (1971, 137),
It is quite obvious that the Oracle was simply intoxicated by some form of narcotic that had been naturally or artificially dissolved in the waters of the spring. The pertinent factor, however, especially as it concerns modern precognition, is the subsequent interpretation given her ravings by the Delphic priests. Most often these interpretations were offerings of good advice on matters of war, marriage, finance, and the like. But when the priests were asked for specific predictions—the bane of all seers—they cloaked their reports in clever ambiguities that, coupled with the ambiguous condition of human life, served as an effective ploy. Thus the name of a king or prince babbled by the Oracle might mean prosperity or calamity for the kingdom or personal harm (or fortune) for the king. If the king was later involved in a crisis, either good or bad—as kings or rulers are wont to be—the priests could take credit for a significant prophecy; something, they would say, was in the air concerning their king.
The wooden idol of Pachacamac (now in the on-site museum but “probably a replica” [Wehner and Gaudio 2004, 283]) was carved with various figures and symbols representing “a cosmic vision of the Andean world” of the twelfth century (Pachakamaq n. d., 11). At the top of the long, cylindrical idol stands, Janus-like, a two-faced figure, apparently representing Pachacamac's oracular ability. This is evident in the deity's being able to see in opposite directions and so, symbolically, to divine the past and future. According to chroniclers, copies of the idol were placed in several different parts of the city (Pachakamaq n. d., 11).
ENTER PIZARRO
As we now know, the oracle met its match in the two-facedness of Francisco Pizarro (ca. 1471–1541). Searching for gold and other riches, Pizarro spent nearly two years traveling across South America's mountains and deserts to locate the heart of the great Inca Empire. The Inca king Atahualpa had received assurance from the oracle at Pachacamac that he would be victorious against the bearded white men who ventured into his land. He expected to sacrifice most to the sun god, keeping only a few as castrated servants, while capturing and breeding the Spaniards’ remarkable horses.
Pizarro had ideas of his own. He sent a friendly invitation to Atahualpa to join him at Cajamarca, the Incan gold-production center, in mid-November 1523. Arriving early, Pizarro stationed his 170 men in three empty warehouses that flanked the main square. Atahualpa arrived with five thousand warriors; he was so confident of supremacy that they were ceremonially dressed and only lightly armed. The king was ostentatiously borne on a litter by eighty Inca officials.
Under Pizarro's direction, a Dominican friar approached Atahualpa and explained that he had come to spread the Catholic faith, offering the king a little breviary (a book of instructions for the recitation of Catholic daily services). Outraged at this presumption, Atahualpa flung the book to the ground, whereupon the conquistadors launched a surprise attack with trumpets blaring, cannon blazing, and armored men on horseback charging with swords and lances. The Incans panicked and fled but were slaughtered in great numbers while many others were suffocated in the crush of bodies.
Captured and imprisoned, Atahualpa bitterly complained of the Pachacamac oracle's false prediction that he would prevail over the Spaniards. He soon offered the Spaniards a king's ransom: in return for his freedom, he would fill a big room (almost eighty-eight cubic meters) with gold and two more with silver. Pizarro agreed, and, as the sacred and other priceless items arrived, he had nine furnaces run continuously to convert them into bars—an estimated 13,420 pounds of 22-karat gold and 26,000 of good-quality silver.
Despite the ransom, a majority of the Spanish officers decided to execute Atahualpa anyway, fearing he was plotting against them. The king agreed to a last-minute baptism—apparently to avoid an infidel's fate of being burned at the stake—and was hanged (Wehner and Gaudio 2004, 283, 460). The oracle of Pachacamac had failed to see not only the ruler's defeat, but his death as well.
Now Pizarro was drawn to the citadel by Atahualpa's accounts of golden treasures there. He and a troop of his soldiers made a three-week ride to the site. Shoving the Incan priests aside, the conquistador strode to the top of the stepped pyramid where he found a building fashioned of cane and mud, its door adorned with gemstones. In its dark interior he found the roughly carved effigy of Pachacamac. As he wrote, “Seeing the filth and mockery of the idol, we went out to ask why they thought highly of something so dirty and ugly” (quoted in Wehner and Gaudio 2004, 283).
Pizarro should have looked critically at his own situation. Living by the sword and failing to follow many of the commandments of his own professed faith, he quarreled with his officers over power, had one executed, and was in turn assassinated by that man's followers—a sordid episode in the sordid history of religious conquest
Mexico's Image of Guadalupe is a sixteenth-century depiction of the Virgin Mary that, according to pious legend, she imprinted miraculously on an Aztec convert's cloak. The Indian, Juan Diego, was canonized as a saint, although new evidence confirms skeptics’ claims that the image is merely a native artist's painting, the tale is apocryphal, and “Juan Diego” is probably fictitious.
The story of Juan Diego, related in the Nican Mopohua (“an account”), which was written in the native Aztec language, is sometimes called the “gospel of Guadalupe.” According to this account, in early December of 1531 (some ten years after Cortez's defeat of the Aztec Empire) Juan Diego was a recent convert who supposedly left his village to attend Mass in another. As he passed the foot of a hill named Tepeyac he encountered a young girl, radiant in golden mist, who identified herself as “the ever-virgin Holy Mary, mother of the true God” and asked that a temple be built on the site. Later, as a sign to a skeptical bishop, she caused her self-portrait to appear miraculously on Juan's cactus-fiber cloak.
The legend obviously contains a number of motifs from the Old and New Testament as well as statements of specific Catholic dogma. Indeed, the tale itself appears to have been borrowed from an earlier Spanish legend in which the Virgin appeared to a shepherd and led him to discover a statue of her along a river known as Guadalupe (“hidden channel”). Moreover, the resulting shrine at Tepeyac was in front of the site where the Aztecs had had a temple for their own virgin goddess Tonantzin (Smith 1983). Thus the Catholic tradition was grafted onto the Indian one, a process folklorists call syncretism.
The image itself also yields evidence of considerable borrowing. It is a traditional portrait of Mary, replete with standard artistic motifs (see accompanying illustration) clearly derived from earlier Spanish paintings. Yet some proponents of the image have suggested that the obvious artistic elements were later additions and that the “original” portions—the face, hands, robe, and mantle—are therefore “inexplicable” and even “miraculous” (Callahan 1981) (see figure 4.1).
Actually, infrared photographs show that the hands have been modified, and close-up photography shows that pigment has been applied to the highlight areas of the face heavily enough to obscure the texture of the cloth. There is also obvious cracking and flaking of paint all along a vertical seam, and the infrared photos reveal in the robe's fold what appear to be sketch lines, suggesting that an artist roughed out the figure before painting it. Portrait artist Glenn Taylor has pointed out that the part in the Virgin's hair is off-center; that her eyes, including the irises, have outlines, as they often do in paintings, but not in nature, and that these outlines appear to have been done with a brush; and that much other evidence suggests the picture was probably copied b
y an inexpert artist from an expertly done original. (Again, see figure 4.1.)
In fact, during a formal investigation of the cloth in 1556, it was stated that the image was “painted yesteryear by an Indian,” specifically “the Indian painter Marcos.” This was probably the Aztec painter Marcos Cipac de Aquino who was active in Mexico at the time the Image of Guadalupe appeared.
In 1985, forensic analyst John F. Fischer and I reported all of this evidence and more in “a folkloristic and iconographic investigation” of the Image of Guadalupe in Skeptical Inquirer (figure 4.1). We also addressed some of the pseudoscience that the image has attracted. For example, some claim to have discovered faces, including that of “Juan Diego,” in the magnified weave of the Virgin's eyes—evidence of nothing more than the pious imagination's ability to perceive images, inkblot-like, in random shapes (Nickell and Fischer 1985).
Later our findings were confirmed when the Spanish-language magazine Proceso reported the results of a study of the Image of Guadalupe. It had been conducted—secretly—in 1982 by art restoration expert José Sol Rosales.
Rosales examined the cloth with a stereomicroscope and observed that the canvas appeared to be a mixture of linen and hemp or cactus fiber. It had been prepared with a brush coat of white primer (calcium sulfate), and the image was then rendered in distemper (i.e., paint consisting of pigment, water, and a binding medium). The artist used a “very limited palette,” the expert stated, consisting of black (from pine soot), white, blue, green, various earth colors (“tierras”), reds (including carmine), and gold. Rosales concluded that the image did not originate supernaturally but was instead the work of an artist who used the materials and methods of the sixteenth century (“El Vaticano” 2002).
In addition, new scholarship (for example, Brading 2001) suggests that, while the image was painted not long after the Spanish conquest and was alleged to have miraculous powers, the pious legend of Mary's appearance to Juan Diego may date from the following century. Some Catholic scholars, including the former curator of the basilica Monsignor Guillermo Schulemburg, even doubt the historical existence of Juan Diego. Schulemburg said the canonization of Juan Diego would be the “recognition of a cult” (Nickell 1997).
