The Science of Miracles

by Joe Nickell

  NAMING THE SHROUD ARTIST

  On occasion in the field of art history and criticism it becomes useful to assign a name to the unknown artist of a particular masterwork. Such is now the case with the medieval painting of the crucified Jesus known as the Shroud of Turin.

  Long held to be the authentic burial cloth of Jesus, the “shroud” is now well established as the work of a mid-fourteenth-century French artist. As discussed in the previous chapter, the supposed relic first surfaced at a little church in the village of Lirey, in north-central France, about 1355. At that time it was being used in a faith-healing scheme to bilk pilgrims. Stylistic and iconographic elements provide corroborative evidence that the image is indeed the work of a medieval artisan, and “blood” flows on the image are also indicative of artistry, being suspiciously still red, “picturelike,” and rendered in tempera paint.

  This cumulative evidence for artistry is finally underscored by the radiocarbon dating. Provided by laboratories at Oxford, Zurich, and the University of Arizona, the results were consistent in dating the cloth to ca. 1260–1390 (or about the time the artist was identified, in 1355 [Damon et al. 1989]).

  Who was this artist? As with so many of his fellow craftsmen, his name remains unknown to us. We are aware that he flourished in the 1350s in north-central France, probably living in the diocese of Troyes—possibly even in the city of Troyes itself—since he seems to have been accessible to the investigating Bishop of Troyes.

  While the artist's genius has sometimes been exaggerated, he was certainly a skilled and clever artisan. He did make mistakes, such as depicting the hair as hanging rather than splayed (i.e., consistent with a standing rather than a recumbent figure). But he showed ingenuity, study, and skill in many ways, not the least of which was accurately distributing the darks and lights in a manner consistent with the bodily imprint that was supposedly represented. That he did not include the wraparound distortions a real body would have left is no doubt merely attributable to his overriding artistic sensibility.

  The traditional way of naming an unknown but important artist is to designate him “Master,” followed by an appropriate descriptor—such as place (for example, Master of Flémalle, or Master Honoré of Paris) or work of art (such as the Master of the Altar of St. Bartholomew or Master of the Castello Nativity). One fifteenth-century engraver is known as the Master of 1466, and a sixteenth-century Limoges enameller has been given a designation based on the monograms on his works: Master K. I. P. (Janson 1963; Davidson and Gerry 1939).

  Following this tradition, we may now name the creator of the work presently known as the Shroud of Turin, or as the great French scholar Ulysse Chevalier termed it, the Saint Suaire de Lirey-Chambéry-Turin (i.e., the Holy Shroud of Lirey-Chambéry-Turin [Chevalier 1900]). This recognizes the cloth's first public appearance at Lirey as well as its subsequent homes. It also recognizes the tradition of naming a purported shroud by its place of display: for instance, the Shroud of Cadouin (after a cloth taken as crusader's booty from Antioch in 1098 to Cadouin, France), the Shroud of Besançon (considered a sixteenth copy of the Turin shroud, exhibited at Besançon, France), and the Shroud of Compiégne (an eight-foot shroud that surfaced in 877 and was venerated for eleven centuries at the St. Cornelius in Abbey Compiégne) (Nickell 1998, 53, 64).

  In this light, it seems appropriate to use the original place name when referring to the artist, since that is the one connected with him historically. Therefore, the title, “Master of the ‘Shroud’ of Lirey,” seems appropriate. The designation is not only useful but also helps to deemphasize the accusation of deliberate fraud against the artist. Although the cloth was originally misrepresented as the authentic shroud of Jesus, it is far from certain that the artist was initially aware of the intended deception. He could have been commissioned to make a symbolic shroud—albeit an unusually realistic one—for reputedly ceremonial purposes. In any event, such a skilled craftsman must have produced many additional works of art, all of which are part of his implicit legacy.

  While science has established the Shroud of Turin as a fourteenth-century forgery—rendered in tempera paint by a confessed forger and radiocarbon dated to the time of the forger's confession (Nickell 1998; McCrone 1996)—the propaganda offensive to convince the public otherwise continues. As part of the strategy, shroud proponents are now ballyhooing another cloth, a supposed companion burial wrapping that they claim helps argue for the shroud's authenticity.

  “COMPANION RELIC”

  At issue is the Oviedo Cloth, an 84×3×53-centimeter piece of linen, stained with supposed blood, that some believe is the sudarium or “napkin” that covered the face of Jesus in the tomb. As described in the New Testament (John 20:7) it was “about his head.” Such a cloth was used in ancient Jewish burial practice to cover the face of the deceased (Nickell 1998, 33–34).

  One reason for the interest in the Oviedo Cloth among Shroud of Turin advocates is to counter the devastating radiocarbon evidence. Three laboratories used sophisticated carbon-14 dating technology to test a piece of shroud cloth, the resulting origin was identified as being between 1260 and 1390 CE. In response, advocates hope to tie the shroud to the Oviedo Cloth, since, allegedly, “the history of the sudarium is undisputed” and it “was a revered relic preserved from the days of the crucifixion” (Anderson 2000).

  Alas, however, the provenance (or historical record) of the Oviedo cloth, located in the Cathedral of Oviedo in northern Spain, is not nearly so definitive. Indeed, even most proauthenticity sources admit it cannot really be established earlier than about the eighth century (Whanger and Whanger 1998, 56), and the earliest supposed documentary evidence is from the eleventh century. According to Mark Guscin in The Oviedo Cloth (1998, 17) (see figure 20.1), “The key date in the history of the sudarium is 14 March 1075.” At that time an oak chest in which the cloth was kept was reportedly opened by King Alfonso VI and others, including the famed knight El Cid, and recorded in a document stating that the chest had long reposed in the church. Unfortunately, the original document is lost and only a thirteenth-century “copy” is found in the cathedral archives (Guscin 1998, 17).

  However, an account of the cloth was penned in the twelfth century by a bishop of Oviedo named Pelayo, who claimed the sudarium had been kept in Jerusalem from the time it was discovered in the tomb until the seventh century, when Christians fleeing the Persian invasion took it to Spain (figure 20.2). But relic mongers typically fabricated stories about their bogus productions, and there were many allegedly genuine sudaria, just as there were numerous “true shrouds”—at least forty-three in medieval Europe alone (Humber 1978, 78). Yet there is not the slightest hint in the Christian Gospels or anywhere else in the New Testament that the burial wrappings of Jesus were actually preserved. Later, of course, certain apocryphal texts claimed otherwise. One fourth-century account mentioned a tradition that Peter had kept the sudarium, but what had subsequently become of it was unknown (Wilson 1979, 92–95).

  Those who would try to link the questionable Oviedo sudarium to the Turin “shroud”—and vice-versa, in the hopes of mutual authentication—face a problem: the sudarium lacks an image like that on the shroud. Had such a cloth indeed covered the face of Jesus, “this would have prevented the image from being formed on the shroud, and it would presumably have caused it to be formed on the sudarium” (Guscin 1998, 33, 34). Proponents now postulate that the sudarium was used only temporarily, in the period after crucifixion and before burial, having been put aside before the body was wrapped.

  But however clever this rationalization, John's Gospel states that Jesus was buried “as the manner of the Jews is to bury” (19:40), and the use of a kerchief to cover the face in burial is specifically mentioned in the Jewish Mishnah. Also, with regard to the burial of Lazarus (John 11:44), who was “bound hand and foot with graveclothes,” we are told that “his face was bound about with a napkin.”

  Undaunted, shroud and sudarium advocates have joined forces and are now makin
g the kind of outrageous and pseudoscientific claims that used to be made for the shroud alone, claiming that “blood” and pollen evidence link the two cloths. Unfortunately, the new claims come from many of the same dubious and discredited sources as before.

  “BLOOD” STAINS

  At an international congress in Oviedo, in October 1994, papers were presented focusing on the latest “investigations” of the supposed sudarium. One claimant was Pierluigi Baima Bollone, who purported to have established that the “blood” stains on the cloth not only were human blood but were of type AB, “the same group,” according to Guscin (1998, 56), “as the blood on the shroud.”

  Actually the assertion that the shroud has type AB blood also comes from the same source, and Bollone's claims are baloney. Even one of the shroud's most committed defenders, Ian Wilson (1998, 89), merely remarks in passing that Bollone “claimed to” have made such a determination. A zealous shroud partisan and chairman of a shroud center, Bollone is a professor of legal medicine.

  In contrast, internationally known forensic serologists, employing the standard scientific tests used in crime laboratories, were unable to find any evidence of blood on several “blood”-stained threads from the Shroud of Turin. The substance, which was suspiciously still red, failed sensitive tests for hemoglobin and hemoglobin derivatives, blood corpuscles, or any other identifiable blood components. The “blood” could not be identified as such, let alone by species or type, and it contained reddish granules that would not even dissolve in reagents that dissolve blood. Sophisticated further tests—including microspectroscopic analysis, thin-layer chromatography, and neutron activation analysis—were also negative. Subsequently, famed microanalyst Walter McCrone identified the “blood” as tempera paint containing red ocher and vermilion along with traces of rose madder—pigments used by medieval artists to depict blood (Nickell 1998, 127–31).

  So when we are told that there is “human blood of the group AB” on the Oviedo “sudarium,” and that the claim of such comes from Bollone, there is cause for skepticism. (Operating even further beyond his field of expertise, Bollone “has also studied the fabric of the sudarium, and affirmed that it is typical of the first century” [Guscin 1998, 56]—never mind seeking the opinion of textile experts.)

  Another alleged correspondence between the “shroud” and the “sudarium” is that the “blood” stains on the latter supposedly “coincide exactly with the face of the image on the Turin Shroud.” Dr. Alan Whanger claims to have found numerous “points of coincidence” between the Oviedo stains and the Turin image by employing a dubious overlay technique. Guscin (1998, 32) describes Whanger as a “highly respected scientist.” Be that as it may, he is a retired geriatric psychiatrist and former missionary who has taken up image analysis as a hobby.

  Whanger's judgment in such matters should perhaps be viewed in light of his studies of the Shroud of Turin. As we have already seen, in that cloth's mottled image and off-image areas, Whanger has perceived such crucifixion-associated items as “a large nail,” “hammer,” “sponge on a reed,” “Roman thrusting spear,” “loose coil of rope,” pair of “sandals” and numerous other imaginings—including “Roman dice”—that the good psychiatrist “sees,” Rorschach-like, in shroud photos. He and a botanist friend have also “identified” various “flower” images as well as ancient Latin and Greek words such as “Jesus” and “Nazareth” (Nickell 2001).

  POLLEN “EVIDENCE”

  Still another purported link between the Turin and Oviedo cloths concerns pollen allegedly found on them. The shroud supposedly bears certain pollens characteristic of locales (Palestine, Constantinople, and ancient Edessa) that seemingly confirm a “theory” of the shroud's missing early history. Similarly, pollens supposedly discovered on the Oviedo Cloth seem to confirm its purported historical route (from Jerusalem through North Africa to Toledo and Oviedo), indeed to “perfectly match” the route (see figure 20.2) according to Guscin. But perhaps the match is too good to be true. As it turns out, the alleged pollen evidence that supposedly helps authenticate the Oviedo Cloth was also provided by Max Frei, whose questionable findings were discussed in chapter 18. In light of the suspicions raised about the shroud pollens, the Oviedo pollen claims should no longer be touted until an independent and impartial sampling is conducted.

  CONCLUSIONS

  As with the Shroud of Turin, the study of the Oviedo Cloth is obviously characterized by pseudoscience and possibly worse. The problems are symptomatic of bias that can occur when analyses of a controversial object are conducted not by independent experts, chosen solely for their expertise, but instead by committed, self-selected partisans who begin with the desired answer and work backward to the evidence—a profound example of what is called confirmation bias.

  If reports that the Oviedo cloth has been radiocarbon tested are true, then the supposed relic is indeed a fake. The claim is that two laboratories have dated it to the seventh and eight centuries, respectively, devastatingly consistent with the historical record. (For more, see my Relics of the Christ 2007, 154–66, 177–79.)

  In October 2004, after participating in the Fifth World Skeptics Congress in Abano Terme, Italy—near Padua, where Galileo taught and discovered Jupiter's moons (Frazier 2005)—I remained in the beautiful country for some investigative work. Here are some of my findings.

  RELICS OF THE SAINTS

  I was able to visit a number of churches containing alleged relics—objects associated with a saint or martyr. These may be all or part of the holy person's body (in Catholicism, a first-class relic) or some item associated with him or her (such as an article of clothing, a second-class relic). Venerated since the first century CE, relics were thought to be imbued with special qualities or powers—such as healing—that could be tapped by one touching or even viewing them (Pick 1979, 101).

  As we saw in chapter 14, so prevalent had relic veneration become in St. Augustine's time (about 400 CE) that he deplored “hypocrites in the garb of monks” for hawking the bones of martyrs, adding with due skepticism, “if indeed of martyrs” (quoted in “Relics” 1973). About 403, Vigilantius of Talouse condemned the veneration of relics as being nothing more than a form of idolatry, but St. Jerome defended the cult of relics—on the basis of miracles that God reputedly worked through them (“Relics” 1967).

  Here and there were such relics as the fingers of St. Paul, St. Andrew, and the doubting Thomas. There were multiple heads of John the Baptist. Especially prolific were relics associated with Jesus, whose foreskin was enshrined at no fewer than six churches. There were also his swaddling clothes, hay from the manger, and vials of his mother's breast milk. A tear that he shed at Lazarus's tomb was also preserved, along with countless relics of his crucifixion and burial (Nickell 1993, 75–76).

  Italy is especially rich with relics. With the generous assistance of my Italian friends, who relayed me from city to city by train across the northern part of the country, I visited reputed holy relics in Vienna, Milan, and Turin (before later flying to Naples).

  In Venice, beneath the high altar of the Basilica di San Marco (St. Mark's Basilica), supposedly lies the body of the author of the Gospel of Mark, martyred in Alexandria and later brought to the city by Venetian merchants. Some Italian colleagues and I visited the cavernous Byzantine basilica on October 11, first paying to see a collection of relics that included an alleged piece of the stone column of Jesus’ flagellation, then paying again to pass by St. Mark's reputed remains.

  Unfortunately, since the remains did not come to Venice until 829 CE (whereupon construction of the basilica was immediately begun to enshrine them), there is a serious question as to their provenance. Even accepting the substance of the story about their acquisition, one source notes that “the identity of the piously stolen body depends on the solidarity of the Alexandrine tradition” (Coulson 1958, 302). Moreover, according to a National Geographic Society travel guide (Jepson 2001, 143), “many claim the saint's relics were destroyed in a fi
re in 976.”

  In Milan, I visited the Basilica of St. Eustorgio, my guide being noted writer (and fellow Skeptical Inquirer columnist) Massimo Polidoro. In a dark recess of the church we read the inscription, “SEPVLCRVM TRIVM MAGORVM” (Sepulcher of the Three Magi). A carved stone slab nearby was accompanied by a sign that informed, “According to tradition this stone slab with the comet was on top of the Magi's tomb and was brought to Italy along with their relics.” Actually the story is a bit more complicated.

  Legendarily, the relics were discovered by St. Helena (248–328), mother of Constantine the Great. They were supposedly transferred to Milan by St. Eustorgio (d. 518), who carried them by ox cart. Then after Milan fell to Frederick Barbarossa in 1162, they were transported to Cologne two years later (Cruz 1984, 154; Lowenthal 1998).

  It appears, however, according to an article by David Lowenthal titled “Fabricating Heritage” (1998), that the relics were never in Milan. Instead, it seems that the whole tale was made up by the Cologne archbishop, Reinald of Cologne. In any event, in 1909 some fragments of the alleged Magi bones were “returned” to Milan and enshrined in the church named for their legendary transporter, the sixth-century bishop of Milan.

  In Turin, I visited important “relic” sites. One, the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, houses the notorious Shroud of Turin, the supposed burial cloth of Christ that is actually a proven forgery, radiocarbon dated to the time of a confessed fourteenth-century artist. With a small group of Turin skeptics, I also studied the latest shroud developments at the Museo della Sindone (Holy Shroud Museum) along with many items associated with the cloth, including the mammoth camera with which it was first photographed in 1898. (For more on the shroud, see Nickell 1998; McCrone 1996).