by Joe Nickell
Hoaxing was apparently responsible in a few cases. For example, India Abroad reported, “At a temple in the Bengali Market area of the capital, canisters with pipes running into them were found in the backyard. The canisters had gathered the milk fed by the devotees.” And at a temple in Toronto investigated by CSICOP Fellow Henry Gordon, a well-known magician and author in Canada, the attendants refused to allow him to lift the small, thirsty idol from its large base. (He was also refused the opportunity to give the idol water and thus test the claim that it drank only milk.)
Although the widespread phenomenon reportedly ceased after one day, possibly due to official expectations, it continued in some homes in New York City for a time. Reported the Miami Herald, “It took ‘the miracle’ exactly eight days to reach Miami from India.” On the other hand, at certain sites, such as the Ganesh temple in Toronto's Richmond Hill suburb, nothing ever happened.
Nature magazine reported that “science took a hammering from religion” over the affair, but it did so only on the propaganda level. Nature seemed heartened by the statement signed by prominent scientists in Madras. It called on educated Indians to help ensure “that primitive obscurantism and superstition did not hold sway over a society on the threshold of the 21st century” (Jayaraman 1995).
My initial involvement with the phenomenon was to monitor developments and answer news queries as well as to write an article about the events for Skeptical Inquirer magazine. At the end of May 2001, however, I had an opportunity to study the phenomenon with Indian skeptic Vikas Gora, who was visiting the Center for Inquiry, home of my office and paranormal-investigation lab. We spent a profitable afternoon replicating and discussing the milk-drinking effect. Vikas had actually witnessed the original “miracle” and had considerable first-hand knowledge about the entire matter, which he was eager to share.
Our experiments confirmed that it does not matter what effigy is used, although white is obviously best if milk is to be the beverage. When a colored figurine is used, water may be substituted for the milk. Although the statue does need to be wet for the first demonstration, thereafter each successive dribbling prepares the figure for the next apparent sipping. Also, the effect works best if the spoon is filled to the brim with liquid.
Two women noticed it first, about August 4, 2003: the eyes of the Virgin Mary statue on the church's bell tower had begun to glow; so had the statue's halo and Sacred Heart. Subsequently the same features of a Jesus statue on the tower's opposite side were also observed to shine mysteriously.
Soon, thousands of pilgrims and curiosity seekers had flocked to the site, St. Joseph the Provider Catholic Church in Campbell, Ohio, just south of Youngstown (Horton 2003; Kubik 2003).
ON SITE
I decided to take in the spectacle and conduct an investigation. Donning a suitable disguise as a pilgrim, which included an ostentatious cross hung from my neck, I drove to Campbell on Saturday, August 16, 2003. As I neared the site I occasionally stopped to ask for directions and thus get feedback from local residents.
At my first stop, a fast-food restaurant in nearby Hubbard, Ohio, I asked a workman about the “miracle statues.” Climbing down from his stepladder he said that he had not heard about them and cautioned, “I wouldn't put much faith in statues.” Closer to the church, a convenience store clerk was familiar with stories about the supposedly miraculous phenomenon but offered a condescendingly skeptical smile while giving directions.
Arriving at the church in the afternoon, I decided to change quickly into the persona of investigative journalist—complete with photographer's vest, camera, and notebook. In this way I could freely go about my business of taking numerous photographs, making experiments (more on this presently), and conducting interviews.
As luck would have it, I was able to catch St. Joseph's busy young priest, Michael Swierz, as he was hurrying into the church. I identified myself as a writer with “Skeptical Inquirer, the science magazine.” He flashed a smile and repeated what he had recently told the Associated Press, that there was a ready explanation for the phenomenon. He stated that during the 1970s the pair of statues had their halo, eyes, and hearts covered with gold leaf. He thought that rain might have washed away the grime or that some chemical reaction might have taken place, causing the gold to shine more brightly (“Priest Offers Explanation” 2003; Swierz 2003).
Reverend Swierz told me the real miracle was that the phenomenon—which had apparently only been noticed recently—had brought together so many diverse people from various places.
EXAMINATION
It seemed easy to confirm the priest's basic explanation. During the afternoon I was able to observe that the gilded areas, especially those of the Sacred Heart of Mary statue (which faces west) were shining brightly while the sun was out, but they dimmed whenever clouds obtruded. Several other statues on the grounds—all lacking gilding—failed to shine. (Local photographer John Yavorsky shared my observation and, equipped with a telephoto lens, kindly shot an extra roll of film for me [see figure 13.1].)
A few people were insistent that the phenomenon occurred even at night, supposedly disproving the shining hypothesis and indicating that the statues were indeed glowing. I resolved to return in the evening, when a crowd would be expected to gather.
After securing lodging and eating supper, I returned for the evening gathering—or “show,” as the Cleveland Plain Dealer termed it (Horton 2003). I brought along a pair of binoculars and a flashlight and joined the latest crowd of pilgrims trampling the grass of the church's east and west courtyards.
After dark, the two statues continued to shine much as before (albeit without the fluctuations caused by waxing and waning sunlight). However, there were obviously streetlights and church security lights as sources of illumination as well as significant ambient light. I observed that the shining changed with the angle of viewing. Also, when I played the beam of my flashlight across each statue's gilded areas, there were distinct flashes of light. These practical experiments clearly demonstrated that the light was being reflected, not transmitted. In other words, there was no glowing, only the shining expected from the areas covered with gold leaf.
The following day, I made my third visit to the church grounds. I talked with a volunteer who was loading a vehicle with supplies for a church picnic. He said the gilding on the statues dated from about 1973 or 1974. He had thought it might have been redone about 1991, but said he was told that that had been judged too costly and had not been carried out. He stated that he had noticed the effect for years but thought nothing of it until it began to receive attention.
He thus confirmed the suggestion of Monsignor Robert Siffrin, vicar-general of the Youngstown, Ohio, Catholic diocese. Monsignor Siffrin said that the shining areas of the statues may have always reflected light and that some people had previously noticed it without drawing attention to it. He agreed with Father Swierz “that light is reflected off the gold leaf” (Kubik 2003).
FURTHER OBSERVATIONS
I spent much time studying the two statues with binoculars, which gave me a good look at the shining areas. Having been a professional sign painter in my youth (Nickell 2001), with hands-on experience in applying gold leaf, I recognized its distinctive appearance on the church statues. It was surely genuine gilding and not the “gold leaf paint” mentioned in some news accounts (see Kubik 2003). (“Gold” paint is typically made with bronze powder as a pigment, and it soon tarnishes [Owen 1958]. Only genuine leaf has the look and brilliance of gold like that on the church's statues, and it is widely used for such outdoor applications, including the famous gold dome of the Denver, Colorado, capitol [Green 2003].)
A brief discussion of the process of surface gilding (distinct from glass—or window—gilding) will be instructive. The process involves the use of either a “quick” (varnish-based) or “slow” (linseed-oil-based) size, the latter permitting “a more brilliant burnish” and enhancing durability. The size is brushed over a suitably primed surface and allowed to d
ry to “a hard, dry-feeling tack,” whereupon incredibly thin squares of beaten gold are then laid on (Owen 1958, 57). The leaves may be purchased “loose” (interleaved between the pages of a book) or in “patent” form (lightly adhered to a paper backing); patent gold is preferred for gilding in the wind (Owen 1958, 57–59; Duvall 1952, 52, 65–66; Sutherland 1889, 6–7).
Finally, after the leaves have been applied in overlapping fashion, they are burnished and then covered with a protective coat of varnish. “This will cut down on the brilliance of the leaf somewhat,” notes one authoritative text (Owen 1958, 59), “but durability will be insured.”
My observations of the supposedly glowing statues in Campbell revealed that, not unexpectedly, the gold was missing in places, and where it was present some areas were brighter than others. I suspect that some of the protective overcoating is still on the duller areas, but that it has largely worn off the rest, causing them to shine even more brightly.
CONCLUSIONS
I found nothing that seemed even remotely supernatural at the site, although much miracle mongering was going on. Some people claimed, for example, that reddish streaks below the Jesus statue were evidence of miraculous “blood,” even though these came not from the body (for example, the heart or areas of Jesus’ crucifixion wounds) but from the very bottom of the box-like base. I thought it much more likely that they were rust stains from the hardware that secured the statue to the bell tower.
Emotional belief is not easy to counter with dispassionate reason and evidence, however. One woman, who saw me taking photographs and scribbling notes, asked my opinion of the “glowing” phenomenon. When I explained my findings and concluded that the gold was merely shining, she managed a smile and said, “I prefer not to believe that.” Such is the way some minds are inoculated against disproof.
Although there is little justification in either the Old or the New Testament to support what would become a cult of relics in early Christianity, such a practice did develop. And relics were typically said to have miraculous properties.
The earliest veneration of Christian relics can be traced to about 156 CE when Polycarp, the bishop of Smyrna, was martyred and his burned remains were gathered for veneration. In time, the distribution and veneration of packets of dust, tiny fragments of bone or cloth, and the like—associated with martyrs and saints—became common. At about 400 CE, St. Augustine deplored the excesses and outright fraud of the relic business, disparaging “hypocrites in the garb of monks for hawking about the limbs of martyrs,” adding skeptically, “if indeed of martyrs” (Encyclopedia Britannica 1978, s.v. “Relics”).
Among other, later critics was Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1340–1400), whose great unfinished work The Canterbury Tales contains a satirical attack on relic mongering. An even more scathing condemnation comes from John Calvin (1509–1564), the Protestant reformer, whose Treatise on Relics is a surprisingly modern look at the Roman Catholic Church's veneration of relics. Both Chaucer and Calvin weighed in on those most quintessentially Christian relics, fragments of the reputed Holy Cross itself. Here is a summary of their views, supplemented by my own investigations and research on the cross, which according to legend was discovered in the fourth century by St. Helena.
CHAUCER'S “PARDONER'S TALE”
The Canterbury Tales (ca. 1386–1400) is Geoffrey Chaucer's fictional classic compilation of stories told by traveling pilgrims, including the host of the Tabard Inn in Southwark, England, from which said pilgrims set out, wending their way to Canterbury Cathedral. “The Pardoner's Tale” satirizes phony relics in a classic of skepticism worthy of a brief retrospective here. The pardoner—one who sells the church's forgiveness of sins—is a pretentious fellow, as hinted in the opening lines (in quaint Middle English):
“Lordynges,” quod he, “in chirches whan I preche,
I peyne me to han an hauteyn speche,
And rynge it out as round as gooth a belle,
For I kan al by rote that I telle.
My theme is alwey oon, and ever was—
‘Radix malorum est cupiditas.’”
That is, as I translate it (and all that follows) into modern English:
“My Lords,” said he, “in churches when I preach,
I do take pains to have a high-toned speech,
And ring it out as roundly as a bell,
For I know by rote all that I tell.
My theme's to be the same and always will
That ‘Greed is at the root of all evil.’”
But the pardoner is merely a hypocrite. First, he displays his letters of approval signed by the pope. Then he brings out his reliquaries, with bits of cloth and other alleged relics, including the shoulder bone of a sheep, and declares:
“If when this bone be washed in any well,
If cow, or calf, or sheep, or ox should swell
From eaten worm, or by a snake's been stung,
Take water of that well and wash its tongue,
And it is healed forthwith; and furthermore,
Of poxes and of scabs and every sore
Shall every sheep be healed, that of this well
Drinks a draft; take heed of what I tell.”
He adds that the relic-treated water will cause farm animals to multiply and will put an end to all human jealousy, including distrust of a wife's faithfulness—even if she has lain with two or three priests! Of another ruse, he admits,
“By this trick I've won, year by year,
A hundred marks since I was Pardoner.
I stand as if a cleric in my pulpit,
And when the common people down do sit,
I preach, so as you've heard me say before,
And even tell a hundred falsehoods more.”
Acknowledging his hypocrisy, he states:
“Thus can I preach against the self-same vice
Which I do use, and that is avarice.
But, though I too am guilty of that sin,
Yet can I make other folk to turn
From avarice, and hurry to repent.
But that is not my principal intent.”
The pardoner then goes on to tell his tale. (It features three young rogues who set out on a drunken quest to slay evil Death. An old man directs them to a spot where they instead discover a treasure of gold coins. Unfortunately, they end up killing each other out of avarice and so indeed find death.)
Finished with his morality tale, the pardoner makes a direct pitch to his host, who rails against the fraudulent relics while indicating his own belief in the relic of the True Cross. The pardoner begins the exchange:
“Come forth, sir host, and offer first then,
And you shall kiss the relics every one,
Yes, for fourpence! Unbuckle now your purse.”
“Nay, nay,” said he, “then I'd have Christ's curse!
It shall not be, however you beseech me.
You would have me kiss your old breeches,
And swear they were a relic of a saint,
Although they're stained with your own fundament!
But by the cross which Saint Helena found,
I'd like to have your bollocks in my hand
Instead of relics or reliquarium;
Let's cut them off, I'll help to carry them;
They shall be enshrined within a hog's turd.”
This pardoner answered not a word.
(The Knight helps make peace between the two men, whereupon the pilgrims “rode forth on their way.”)
Now, Chaucer's own view of the True Cross is unstated, but having it endorsed by his central character, a good Christian and a man of seeming integrity, suggests that Chaucer accepts the relic allegedly found by St. Helena as authentic. Nevertheless, if he does not condemn all relics outright, Chaucer does identify and disparage fraudulent relic practices. At the time he was writing, this was a bold stance for a writer to take. Reformist John Calvin, however, writing a century and a half later, took the matter several steps further.
CALVIN O
N RELICS
John Calvin's condemnation of relics is sweeping. In his Treatise on Relics (1543), he observes that “the desire for relics is never without superstition, and what is worse, it is usually the parent of idolatry” (Calvin 1543, 218). He is unrelenting in his withering look at relics—from the reputed Holy Blood, “exhibited in more than a hundred places” (226), to the many bogus holy shrouds (including today's controversial one, which was kept at Nice in Calvin's time; it wasn't transferred to Turin until 1578 [Nickell 2009, 40]).
Calvin had much to say about the pieces of the alleged True Cross—the location of which was supposed to have been miraculously revealed to St. Helena in 326 CE. Calvin suggested that “if we were to collect all these pieces of the True Cross exhibited in various parts, they would form a whole ship's cargo.” He also said that there were more relics of it “than three hundred men could carry,” adding, “As an explanation of this, [the relic mongers] have invented the tale, that whatever quantity of wood may be cut off this true cross, its size never decreases. This is, however, such a clumsy and silly imposture, that the most superstitious may see through it” (233).
Calvin specifically refers to the alleged fragment known as the Titulus Crucis (cross title board). Bearing the inscription “This is the King of the Jews,” the Titulus—with text in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew—was ordered by Pilate to be placed on the cross (Luke 23:38). Two churches, Calvin delights in observing, lay claim to this relic. Actually, Helena supposedly divided the Titulus into three pieces, only one of which now remains—kept, as Calvin noted (234), in Rome's Church of the Holy Cross.
