by Joe Nickell
Modern science has validated Calvin's skepticism of the Titulus. First, the artifact contains a number of anachronisms and other problematic elements that indicate it is a probable forgery (Nickell 2007, 86–90). For example, although the Hebrew (or Aramaic) letters are correctly written from right to left, so—incorrectly—are the Greek and Latin lines. Based on my research on the history of writing, as soon as I saw this error (see my drawing, figure 14.1), I thought it a prima facie indication of spuriousness (see my Pen, Ink, and Evidence [Nickell 1990]).
Another paleographic error is found in the Greek line. Although it is written in mirror-image fashion from right to left, one letter—the z—is not reversed. This further emphasizes the problematic nature of the writing and suggests that the writer may not have been familiar with the ancient languages. Unless we accept the rationalizations of the Titulus's defenders (Thiede and d'Ancona 2000, 96–100), spelling errors also cast doubt on the inscription. Another doubtful feature is the letters having not just been painted but first incised into the wood—a seemingly gratuitous enhancement—whereas one would instead expect a hastily prepared placard intended to be used quickly and then discarded.
Indeed, such suspicions are confirmed via radiocarbon dating. A sample of the walnut wood (Juglans regia) was taken from the back of the slab, cleaned to remove any contamination, and then subjected to the carbon-dating process. Control samples of varying ages were also included to confirm the accuracy of the process. The tests on the Titulus revealed that it was made between 980 and 1146 CE (Bella and Azzi 2002)—a date range incompatible with its alleged first-century origin but consistent with the period (1144–1145) when the artifact was apparently acquired (Nickell 2007, 86–90).
THE FRAGMENTS
Over the years I have encountered pieces of the alleged True Cross (figure 14.2), together with the pious legends of their acquisition. In my own collection are a pilgrim's token of the True Cross (reputedly made in the seventh century by mixing clay with some ash from a burned piece of the cross) and a small bronze Byzantine cross of about the same time period (Nickell 2007, 79, 93). The latter was a legacy of Constantine the Great (274–337), who issued an edict that tolerated Christianity after having a miraculous vision of a flaming cross in the sky—a vision that is both doubtful and of later vintage (Nickell 2007, 77–79).
It is another reputed vision—that of Constantine's mother, Queen Helena (later St. Helena)—to which is attributed the finding of the True Cross. In 326, nearly three centuries after the crucifixion, Helena went to Jerusalem, where she allegedly discovered the site of the cross's concealment, supposedly with divine inspiration: either by heavenly signs, dreams, or the guidance of a Jew named Judas. In fact, she supposedly located, beneath rubble, three crosses—supposedly of Jesus and the two thieves crucified with him (Matthew 27:38)—but was unable to distinguish which was Jesus’. Each cross was then tested on a mortally ill woman, and one—according to the fanciful legend—miraculously healed her, thus proving it was the Vera Crux, the True Cross.
Supposedly a portion of the cross was given to Constantine while another was taken to Rome. The main portion remained in the custody of successive bishops of Jerusalem; it was captured by Persians in 614 but then victoriously returned in 627. Finally, in 1187 it was lost forever, after crusading Franks occupied Jerusalem.
Nevertheless, alleged fragments of the True Cross and Roman nails from the crucifixion proliferated. As early as the mid-fourth century, St. Cyril of Jerusalem (ca. 315–386) wrote that “already the whole world is filled with fragments of the wood of the Cross.” From the fifth century on, a “cult of the Cross” developed and churches were erected in the True Cross's name. In a letter, St. Paulinus of Nola (353–431) dared to explain (and Calvin would later satirize, as we have seen) the claim that, regardless of how many pieces were taken from the cross, it never diminished in size—a “fact” that has been compared with Jesus’ Miracle of the Multiplying Loaves and Fishes (Cruz 1984, 39).
I was able to view a purported piece of the True Cross in Turin in 2004. It was set in a cruciform reliquary (along with a purported relic of the Holy Blood). The lighted reliquary is the focal point of a relic chapel—the crypt of the Church of Maria Ausiliatrice—which contains a fabulous collection of some five thousand relics of saints, exhibited in seemingly endless panels and display cases along the walls. Included are relics alleged to be from Mary Magdalene and, more credibly, St. Francis of Assisi.
In 2009 in Genoa I saw no fewer than four pieces of the “True Cross” arrayed in an elaborate reliquary cross (figure 14.2). The fragments were specifically claimed to be from the True Cross—or so “tradition has it.” (Translation: “This is only a handed-down tale.”) Known as Croce degli Zaccaria (or “cross of the Zaccaria”), it was formerly owned by a family of that name, who were among the major merchant traders of the eastern Mediterranean when Genoa was at its commercial and political peak. The reliquary was reportedly first commissioned in the ninth century, then remade in its present form (again see figure 14.2) between 1260 and 1283—a gilt and bejeweled cruciform artifact now displayed in the Museum of the Treasury of the Cathedral of San Lorenzo (St. Lawrence) of Genoa (Marica 2007, 6; “Museum of the Treasury,” n. d.).
Again, the lack of any credible provenance (its traceability to some known point)—together with the incredible proliferation of such fragments and even the suspicious neatness of these four pieces of the “True Cross”—makes the Croce degli Zaccaria a piece to be entirely skeptical of, not revered.
CONCLUSION
There is no credible evidence that Helena, or anyone, found Jesus’ cross (with or without accompanying crosses of the two thieves) in the fourth century—or at any other time for that matter. The provenance is laughable. Even more so is the absurd tale of its miraculousness: its infinite ability to restore itself no matter how many pieces were taken from it.
The proliferating pieces of the True Cross have been rivaled for outlandishness by many other bogus relics—such as over forty shrouds of Jesus and multiple corpses of Mary Magdalene (Nickell 2007, 40, 116). Geoffrey Chaucer and John Calvin were justifiably critical of relic hucksterism in their respective times, and we—with our modern scientific means of analysis, such as radiocarbon dating—must be no less so.
A member of the European Union, Belgium is located between the Netherlands, Germany, and France. The country, which takes its name from its first recorded inhabitants, ancient Celts known as Belgae, has a rich history, having been a province of the Roman Empire, the heart of the Carolingian dynasty, and a celebrated medieval textile center. Today, among its many great attractions are such historic cities as Brussels, Ghent, and Bruges, together with museums of Flemish art. While it is a country of scientific advances (a world leader in heart and lung transplants as well as in fertility treatments [World Desk Reference 2000, 129]), it is also, according to many, a place of miracles.
I made my first investigative pilgrimage to Belgium in 1998 (accompanied by local skeptic Tim Trachet). I returned in 2006 (with Dutch science writer and translator Jan Willem Nienhuys) as a side excursion from travels in the Netherlands (Nickell 2007a). On both occasions, I looked at purported wonders such as the healing shrine known as the Belgian Lourdes (chapter 27), an ancient miracle statue (chapter 2), and a vial of the Holy Blood of Christ.
BLOOD OF CHRIST
John Calvin (1543, 226) critically observed that alleged blood of Jesus “is exhibited in more than a hundred places,” one of the most celebrated being the Basilica of the Holy Blood in Bruges. I twice visited the site, and on the second occasion (October 25, 2006) I was able to hold in my hands the reliquary supposedly containing the very blood of Christ (figure 15.1). It has been called “Europe's holiest relic” (Coupe 2009, 132).
According to legend, the Bruges relic was obtained in Palestine in the mid-twelfth century, during the Second Crusade, by Thierry of Alsace. He allegedly received it from his relative Baldwin II, then King of Jerusalem, as a
reward for meritorious service. However, chronicles of the crusades fail to mention the relic being present in Jerusalem (Aspeslag 1988, 10). Sources claim that Thierry, Count of Flanders, brought the relic to Bruges in 1150, while another source reports that it arrived in 1204. In any event, the earliest document that refers to it dates from 1270 (Catholic Encyclopedia 1913, s.v. “Bruges”; Aspeslag 1988, 9–11).
The reliquary, housed in the twelfth-century Basilica of the Holy Blood, is now brought out daily for veneration by the faithful. Although mistakenly characterized by at least one source as “a fragment of cloth stained with what is said to be the blood of Christ” (McDonald 2009, 145), it in fact consists of “clotted blood” contained in a vial set in a glass-fronted cylinder, each end of which is covered with gold coronets decorated with angels. The vial (made of rock crystal rather than glass) has been determined to be an eleventh- or twelfth-century Byzantine perfume bottle.
In 1310 Pope Clement V issued a papal bull granting indulgences to pilgrims who visited the chapel at Bruges and venerated the blood. At that time, believers claimed the blood miraculously returned to its original liquid state every Friday at noon. This not only sounds like a magic trick, but it evokes the similar suspect “miracle” of the blood of St. Januarius at Naples (discussed in chapter 21). (See also Nickell 2007b.)
Unfortunately, the Holy Blood at Bruges soon stopped liquefying, supposedly as the result of some blasphemy that occurred later in 1310. The miracle recurred only one more time, in 1388 (Aspeslag 1988, 11).
A CLOSE LOOK
Naturally, I wanted to get a good look at the “blood,” so I twice stood in the pilgrims’ line, supposedly to pray over the reliquary (again, see figure 15.1). In fact, although I bowed respectfully, I used the two brief occasions to scrutinize the substance. I observed that it had a waxen look and was bespeckled with “coagulated drops” that have suspiciously remained red (Bruges Tourist Guide 1998, 28) unlike blood, which blackens with age (Kirk 1974, 194–95).
In brief, the Holy Blood of Bruges lacks a credible provenance, since it has no record for a dozen centuries after the death of Jesus and is contained in a medieval bottle. It appeared with a profusion of other dubious blood relics, including several with which it had in common the property of liquefying and resolidifying, suggestive of a magic trick. Both that behavior and its current appearance are incompatible with genuine old blood and are instead indicative of a pious fraud.
Among certain reputedly miraculous images of Jesus—said to be acheiropoietos or “not made by hands”—was the Image of Edessa, known later to the Byzantines as the Mandylion (or “holy towel”). I was able to view this image, part of a traveling exhibition of “Vatican Splendors,” in Cleveland, Ohio, on September 1, 2008. It bore the title “The Mandylion of Edessa,” although the official exhibition catalog held some surprise revelations (“Mandylion of Edessa” 2008). I would discover others.
THE LEGEND
The story of the Edessan image is related in a mid-fourth-century Syriac text called The Doctrine of Addai. It tells how King Abgar of Edessa (now Urfa in south-central Turkey), afflicted with leprosy, sent a messenger named Ananias to deliver a letter to Jesus requesting a cure. In the letter (according to a tenth-century report [quoted in Wilson 1979, 272–90]), Abgar sends “greetings to Jesus the Savior who has come to light as a good physician in the city of Jerusalem” and who, he has heard, “can make the blind see, the lame walk…heal those who are tortured by chronic illnesses, and…raise the dead.” Abgar decided that Jesus either is God himself or the Son of God, and so he entreats Jesus to “come to me and cure me of my disease.” He notes that he has heard of the Jews’ plan to harm Jesus and adds, “I have a very small city, but it is stately and will be sufficient for us both to live in peace.”
Abgar, so the story goes, instructed Ananias that if he were unable to persuade Jesus to return with him to Edessa, he was to bring back a portrait instead. But while Ananias sat on a rock drawing the portrait, Jesus summoned him, divining his mission and the fact of the letter Ananias carried. After reading it, Jesus responded with a letter of his own, writing, “Blessed are you, Abgar, in that you believed in me without having actually seen me.” Jesus said that while he must fulfill his mission on earth, he would later send one of his disciples to cure Abgar's suffering and to “also provide your city with a sufficient defense to keep all your enemies from taking it.” After entrusting the letter to Ananias, “the Savior then washed his face in water, wiped off the moisture that was left on the towel that was given to him, and in some divine and inexpressible manner had his own likeness impressed on it.” Jesus gave Ananias the towel to present to Abgar as “consolation” for his disease.
Quite a different version of the story (see Wilson 1979, 277–78) holds that the image was impressed with Jesus’ bloody sweat during his agony in the Garden of Gethsemane (Luke 22:44). (This anticipates the still later tradition of Veronica's Veil, wherein Veronica, a woman from Jerusalem, was so moved by Jesus’ struggling with his cross on the way to execution that she wiped his face on her veil or kerchief, thus imprinting it with his bloody sweat. Actually, the term veronica is simply a corruption of the Latin words vera iconica, “true images” [Nickell 2007, 71–76].) In this second version of the story, Jesus’ disciple Thomas held the cloth for safekeeping until Jesus ascended to heaven, whereupon it was then sent to King Abgar.
Significantly, the earliest mention of the Abgar/Jesus correspondence—an account of circa 325 CE by Bishop Eusebius—lacks any mention of the holy image (Nickell 1998, 45). Also, in one revealing fourth-century text of The Doctrine of Addai, the image is described not as of miraculous origin but merely as the work of Hannan (Ananias), who “took and painted a portrait of Jesus in choice paints, and brought it with him to his lord King Abgar” (quoted in Wilson 1979, 130).
Historian Sir Steven Runciman has denounced all versions of the legend as apocryphal: “It is easy to show that the story of Abgar and Jesus as we now have it is untrue, that the letters contain phrases copied from the gospels and are framed according to the dictates of later theology” (quoted in Sox 1978, 52).
THE MANDYLION'S JOURNEY
Nevertheless, Runciman adds, “that does not necessarily invalidate the tradition on which the story was based” (quoted in Sox 1978, 52). The best evidence in the case would be the image itself, but which image? There have been several, each claimed to be the miraculous original. Obviously, only one could be authentic, but does it even still exist?
The Mandylion has a gap in its provenance (or historical record) of several centuries. It was reportedly transferred in 944 to Constantinople, capital of the Byzantine Empire, along with the purported letter from Jesus to King Abgar. The image may once have been incorporated into a triptych of the tenth century. Its side panels, now reposing in the monastery of Saint Catherine on Mount Sinai, illustrate the pious legend of Abgar receiving the image. Interestingly, the panels portray Abgar as having the features of Byzantine emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitos.
After the Venetians conquered Constantinople in 1204, during the Fourth Crusade, the Mandylion was reportedly transferred to the West, where its history becomes confused. Three traditions develop, each associated with a different “original” of the image:
Parisian Mandylion. Allegedly obtained by Emperor Baldwin II and sold or donated by him in 1247, this image was eventually acquired by King Louis IX (1214–1270), who had it installed in the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. It was lost in 1792, apparently destroyed during the French Revolution (“Mandylion of Edessa” 2008; Wilson 1991, 129).
Genoese Mandylion. Although this image reportedly can be traced back to the tenth century, its verifiable history dates from 1362 when then Byzantine Emperor John V donated it to Genoa's Doge Leonardo Montaldo. After Montaldo died in 1384, the Mandylion was bequeathed to the Genoese Church of St. Bartholomew of the Armenians, arriving in 1388. It remains there, displayed in a gilt-silver, enameled frame of the fourteenth-century P
alaeologan style. The image itself is on a cloth that has been glued to a wooden board (“Mandylion of Edessa” 2008; “Image of Edessa” 2008; Wilson 1991, 113–14, 137–38).
Vatican Mandylion. This image (figure 16.1) has no certain history before the sixteenth century, when it was known to be kept at the convent of San Silvestro in Capito. In 1517, the nuns were reportedly forbidden to exhibit it, so it would not compete with the church's Veronica. And in 1587 it was mentioned by one Cesare Baromio. In 1623 it received its silver frame, donated by Sister Dionora Chiarucci. It remained at San Silvestro until 1870 when, during the war that completed the unification of Italy, Pope Pius IX had it removed to the Vatican for safekeeping. Except when traveling, it still reposes in the Vatican's Matilda Chapel (“Mandylion of Edessa” 2008; “Image of Edessa” 2008; Wilson 1991, 139–40).
These are the three Edessan Mandylions that have been claimed as original. Others—such as a seventeenth-century Mandylion icon in Buckingham Palace in London, surrounded by painted panels (Wilson 1979, 111)—need not concern us here.
IMAGE ANALYSIS
The Vatican now concedes (in the words of the official Vatican Splendors exhibit catalog “Mandylion of Edessa” 2008]) that “the Mandylion is no longer enveloped today by any legend of its origin as an image made without the intervention of human hands.”
In the summer of 1996, the Vatican Museum's chemistry and painting restoration laboratory analyzed their Mandylion. It was taken out of its baroque reliquary and removed from its silver-sheet frame (made in 1623). Glued to a cedar support panel was the linen cloth on which the face of Christ was clearly “painted,” although the nondestructive tests were insufficient to specifically confirm that the painting medium was tempera.