Part Two of a discussion of Jack Markwardt’s “Antioch” hypothesis covered the years
501 – 900 AD, 1 and to be honest, it takes a while before any reasonable suggestion that the Shroud might be involved emerges at all. Two cryptic mentions of an image clearly visible on a wall in Antioch, and the legend of the discovery of a miraculous image in a pond in Camuliana are all we have until the end of the 6th century, and they don’t amount to any kind of coherent narrative. From them, however, Markwardt constructs a legend of his own, totally uncorroborated, and contends that unless I can provide a better link between this evidence than the story he has devised, it is unreasonable not to accept it. I’m afraid I don’t agree.
Along the way, Markwardt requires his putative Shroud to be folded up so nobody knows it’s a full length image, shut up in a wall to explain a long period of silence, discovered by accident to account for its reappearance, and described in mystical terms to keep the truth from the general public. Although, at Dale Glover’s request, he spends some considerable time in this podcast refuting the idea that the Shroud was disguised as the image of Edessa, his own idea requires exactly the same inventions to help it along, none of which are suggested or implied by the evidence.
Eventually, all the evidence dries up completely, and the problem has to be approached from a different angle altogether. What were the origins of the developments in Byzantine iconography and liturgy which gave rise to the bearded ‘pantocrator’ image, the first representations of crucifixion, the imperial loros, the identification of altar cloths with the burial cloths of Christ, and the injunction that images of Christ be shown in human (rather than metaphorical) form, “so that all may understand by means of it the depths of the humiliation of the Word of God, and that we may recall to our memory his conversation in the flesh, his passion and salutary death, and his redemption which was wrought for the whole world.” These are worthwhile historical enquiries, and have been much discussed. If there were any evidence that a physical memento of the death of Christ had appeared, or begun to be known about, shortly before any of these developments emerged, then it would be sensible to suggest that it might have played a part in shaping them. I found this part of the discussion more stimulating than most of the rest, and will discuss the questions later. Meanwhile…
We left the alleged Image of Antioch in 362 AD, after a fire destroyed the Temple of Apollo, and in revenge, the Emperor Julian murdered the Christian Cathedral’s treasurer, who had hidden the Image in the wall above the Gate of the Cherubim, although as I have shown, there is no evidence that there ever was an image, and no evidence that it was hidden, and no evidence that the treasurer was murdered in connection with it.
The only references to any kind of image that might have been associated with Antioch come from the Pratum Spirituale of John Moschos (c.550-619 AD),2 and the life of St Symeon Stylites the Younger (521-596 AD),3 neither of which necessarily refer to any particular date. The first tells the story of a man of Antioch who dreamt he saw Jesus stepping out of an image near the Gate of the Cherubim, and the second simply that Symeon had a vision of Jesus in the same place as a child. It seems quite likely that some kind of figure did exist there: according to Glanville Downey, Markwardt’s go-to source for the History of Antioch,4 it was probably a statue.
Antioch was destroyed by successive earthquakes in 526 and 528, and after being partially reconstructed, burnt to the ground by the invading Persian King Chosroes I in 540.
Between this time and the end of the century, a plethora of images appear around Christendom, some described as acheiropoieta, and some of which are extant. The most famous is the earliest pantocrator icon we know, now in St Catherine’s monastery, showing Christ holding a book in his right hand and gesturing with his left, and and a halo with the cross in it around his head. Another icon dated to the 6th century is in Tbilisi, Georgia, showing only Christ’s head, tightly enclosed in more modern silver repoussé work and made into a triptych. In the Lateran Palace in Rome is another, slightly longer triptych, also entirely made of repoussé, with only the head of Christ (itself much restored) visible through a tightly constrained space. Also at the same time the complex of buildings at Ravenna (now Emilia Romagna, Italy) was erected, with some of the most extensive, most beautiful and most complex mosaics, including many of Christ, ever made. In Constantinople, now long gone, were perhaps the most influential images, one above the Chalke Gate into the Palace of Constantinople, and others in the Hagia Sophia, which more or less defined the classical Byzantine icon of Christ which pertains to this day. Images of Christ also began to appear on smaller objects, such as vases, reliquaries and censers.
Vase from Homs, Syria. Reliquary in the Vatican (Capsella Vaticana).
Reliquary from Chersonese, Crimea.
Apart from these artefacts, there is contemporary documentary evidence for the Images of Edessa5 and Camuliana,6 and another alleged in Memphis, Egypt,7 none of which are any longer extant (unless they survive under a different name).
Is it possible that one or more of these images derive from the Shroud of Turin? Paul Vignon saw a kind of family tree leading back through the Image of Edessa to the Shroud, and Ian Wilson thought the Image of Edessa was actually the Shroud. Jack Markwardt thinks the Image of Camuliana was the Shroud. I don’t think the evidence supports either of them.
For a start the first bearded images of Christ appear not in Constantinople but in Rome, in the Catacombs, where they seem to me to represent a development in iconographical ideas, as I have said before, from Jesus the young miracle-worker or the shepherd-boy, to Jesus the wise old God, the Alpha and the Omega, as sometimes specifically indicated on his halo. This concept seems to have developed from comparison with classical Roman Gods.
Jesus in the Catacombs of Saints Marcellinus and Peter, and Commodilla,
and in the basilica of San Pudenziana, all in Rome.
When the beard first appears in Constantinople, it is almost invariably accompanied by a book, a gesturing hand, and a halo with a cross in it. If all these are derivative – and they are so similar I think they must be – then the prototype should also have a book, a gesturing hand, and a halo. There is no evidence that any of the alleged acheiropoieta had any of these. And of course, all these images show a living, healthy God, not a dead one dribbled with blood.
According to Markwardt, the first use of the word ‘acheiropoietos’ occurs in the Chronicle of Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor, to describe the Image of Camuliana, which he thinks is the Shroud. But that can’t be correct. The chronicler is at pains to describe three images: one found in a pond, the second on a wrapping put around the first, and the third, specifically “a copy of the icon in Camulia,” brought by another woman to her own village on the opposite border of Turkey, Diobulion. It is this copy which is termed ‘acheiropoietos.’ It may be true that the Image of Diobulion was called ‘acheiropoietos,’ and it may be true that this was the first use of the word in connection with images, but there were at least two previous images specifically described as not being made by humans in the very same chapter. None of them is full length, none of them is a double image, none of them shows Jesus dead.
Unfortunately this passage is crucial to Markwardt’s argument. “Why is, based on what we know in history; why is there suddenly a reference to an acheiropoietos image of Jesus – the term’s not used before; it’s applied to this particular cloth – and what could it be other than the Shroud of Turin?”
Almost anything, is the answer. Clearly images of Christ were popping up from one end of the empire to the other, and some of them were being claimed to be directly from Jesus wiping his face, and some of them just miraculously appeared. Many, it seems, were painted by St Luke, at least according to Theodorus Lector, writing in Constantinople a few years later. Many performed miracles.8 None at all are described as shrouds, or images of Jesus dead. However, Markwardt may be correct that Pseudo-Zacharias Rhetor was the first to use the word ‘acheiropoietos’ to describe one of these alleged miracle-images, and it may be worth looking more closely at the word rather than the image.
Because the word is unusual – or at least it was at the time – so anyone who read it would have recognised it immediately as one which appears in the Gospel of Mark, coined by Jesus himself.
“We heard him say, ‘I will destroy this temple made with human hands and in three days will build another, not made with hands [ἀχειροποίητον].” Mark 14:58. The word is also used a couple of times by St Paul. It was not simply a description of the miraculous provenance of an image, but an ongoing divine sanction, entirely appropriate to a picture being toured around the local area in the hope of raising funds for the relief of a devastated town, and later, to another picture being used to defeat a besieging army.
At this central point in the discussion, Markwardt’s sums up his evidence so far in truly bizarre terms. “In creating [the legend of the discovery of the Image of Camuliana], Justinian effectively obliterated the relic’s apostolic provenance, entire ancient history, and centuries-long affiliation with the Church of Antioch. Justinian is responsible for the historical obscurity which presently surrounds the Shroud, and for the doubt which surrounds its authenticity.” Markwardt goes on to sum up the significant conclusions he thinks can be drawn from Pseudo-Zacharias Rhetor:
“• It confirms that the patriarch Ephraemius brought the Shroud from Antioch to Constantinople in 540.
• It connects the Shroud with the city of Antioch, and thereby confirms upon it an apostolic provenance.
•It confirms that the Shroud was in Constantinople, and under the control of Emperor Justinian I from 544 to 560, just when the first pantocrator images of Jesus were created.
•It refutes that the Shroud was in Edessa for the Persian siege of 544.
•It explains the historical obscurity which presently surrounds the Turin Shroud.”
In my opinion, after my own careful reading of all the sources Markwardt has mentioned so far, none of this is stated, suggested or even implied by any of it.
Moving on…
Eventually, after all this fantasy, we come to a fact. A Byzantine historian refers to the Image of Camuliana being brought to Constantinople in 574 AD. But Markwardt doesn’t identify the historian, and with good reason. The only mention of the Image of Camuliana being in Constantinople at all comes from the 11th century, 500 years after the event, in the Compendium Historiarum of Georgios Kedrenos, who writes:
“Nono anno Avares ad Danubium venerunt ac vicerunt Romanos. Et Artabanus Persa, in Romanorum dicionem facta incursione, multos captivos abduxit, captoque etiam Daras castro domum rediit. Justinus nuntio tantae cladis accepto animo abalienatus est, petiitque ab Hormisda uti pacem componeret, quae et in annum pacta est. Constitutum sub eo est ut psalmus Tuae coenae mysticae magna feria quinta caneretur. Allata quoque tunc est imago nulla manu Camulianis pago Cappadociae, et veneranda ligna ab Apamea urbe Syriae secundae. Institutum etiam est ut hymnus Cherubicus cantaretur.”
“In the ninth year the Avars came to the Danube and defeated the Romans. And Artabanus the Persian, having made an incursion into the domain of the Romans, carried off many prisoners, and having also taken the fortress of Daras, returned home. Justinus, on receiving the news of such a defeat, was estranged in spirit, and asked Hormisda to arrange a peace, which was agreed upon for a year. It was arranged under him that the psalm of ‘Tuae coenae mysticae‘ should be sung on great Thursdays. At the same time the ‘imago nulla Manu’ [‘acheiropoieto,’ in the Greek version] was brought in from Camuliana in Cappadocia, and the ‘veneranda ligna’ from Apamea, the second city of Syria. It was also instituted that the ‘Hymnus Cherubicus’ should be sung.”
And that’s it. No doubt it was based on an earlier tradition, but there’s no trace of that.
From now on, Markwardt presents a succession of unconnected snippets of information, many of whose origins are difficult to track down, and turn out not to be worth the effort. Take this:
“Also, serving at the same time – he was the ambassador from the Vatican to Constantinople – was the man who would thereafter become Pope Gregory the Great. When he becomes Pope, he commissions an artwork; it’s called the acheropita (this is an image of it). It means of course ‘not made by human hands.’ It’s Jesus, it’s full length and it’s put into the Lateran Palace. Why does he create that image at that time? What in his background, of all the churchmen in the world, is having him create an acheiropoeitos image?” The source for this story is Ian Wilson, and it turns out to have been completely made up. The image exists, and it is 6th century, and it may have originated in Constantinople, but it has no documented provenance and no documented connection with Gregory the Great.
Another piece of evidence is the crucifixion scene in the Rabbula gospels, written in Syriac in about 586 AD in a monastery south of Antioch, one of the earliest paintings of the crucifixion extant. Of this, Markwardt says: “This is an image of Christ crucified, the Shroud is an image of Christ crucified, so it explains it. If there’s another explanation somebody should come forward with it.”
Indeed they should, and indeed they have. Markwardt seems to think that nobody else has even considered, let alone researched, the history of Crucifixion in art except himself, but this is incorrect. Gertrud Schiller9 devotes ten pages to it, and notes the earliest crucifixion images on amulets and ampullae from the 3rd century and on ivory and wooden plaques from around 430 AD. Significantly, they are from Italy, not Syria or Constantinople. Cyril Edward Pocknee10 thinks that the dispersal of pieces of the true cross, which had been kept in Jerusalem since its alleged discovery in 326 AD, may have contributed to the development of its imagery, and that the rise of Monothelitism, “which tended to emphasise the divinity of Christ to the exclusion of his humanity,” provoked a backlash, epitomised by the Quinisext Council’s Canon 82, demanding that images of Christ be shown in human form, “so that all may understand by means of it the depths of the humiliation of the Word of God, and that we may recall to our memory his conversation in the flesh, his passion and salutary death, and his redemption which was wrought for the whole world.”11
Then we come to the Mozarabic liturgy, the earliest published copy of which appeared in 1500 according to Mark Guscin,12 under the editorship of Cardinal Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros.13 Liturgy is slow to change, but it is hard to demonstrate that any particular word in the liturgy must have derived from any particular event, such as the return to Spain of Bishop Leander of Seville from Constantinople in about 590 AD. The form of the liturgy is uncontroversial, but buried deep within its compendium of all the readings for dozens of masses throughout the year, we find the word ‘vestigia,’ in connection with the burial cloths of Jesus, that does not occur in the corresponding passage in the Gospel of St John. The Gospel (for Easter Sunday) says, “Venit ergo Simon Petrus sequens eum, et introivit in monumentum, et vidit linteamina posita, et sudarium, quod fuerat super caput ejus non cum linteaminibus positum, sed separatim involutum in unum locum.” This is paraphrased in the Preface (called the ‘Inlatio’ in the missal) for the Saturday after Easter as: “Ad monumentum Petrus cum Johanne concurrit: recentiaque in linteaminibus defuncti et resurgentis vestigia cernit.” This can be translated: “”Peter ran with John to the tomb and saw the recent [vestigia] of the dead and risen man on the linens.”
The question is, does the word ‘vestigia’ suggest marks on the Shroud, such as the images on the Shroud of Turin. Maurus Green14 thinks it may, but cautions, “Vestigium (footstep, footprint, trace or mark: meanings unchanged since the seventh century) could permit this, but the more figurative traces would indicate merely the wrapped state of the cloths as though still enfolding the absent body, without implying any knowledge of imprints.” We note that the word ‘vestigia’ occurs over twenty times in the missal, and every single time it means footprints or footsteps.
The Image of God Incarnate, which Markwardt identifies as the Image of Camuliana, occurs a couple of times in a history by Theophract Simocatta.15 He describes how this image was paraded through the ranks by General Philippicus to inspire the Byzantine army to victory against the Persians at the battle of Solachon in 586 AD, but also how it completely failed to impress the same army who mutinied two years later. The account of an image being paraded is similar to the one described by Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor (above), and it seems reasonable to suppose they were the same, although they are not called the image of Camuliana – until, as described above, a thousand years later. George of Pisidia mentions an acheitopoieton being used by Heraclius against the Persians in about 620 AD, and at least one other, or the same one, paraded around the walls of Constantinople in 626 AD.16
Finally, in this section of the pre-history of the Shroud, we’ll look at the Tarragona Manuscript, or, as it should more accurately be called, Tarragonensis 55.17 Although it was written in about 1300, it is probably a copy of a much earlier work, from about 1100. It mentions an event that happened as a result of a series of earthquakes, “assiduo terremotu.” The author says that these were the result of the reliquary of the Image of Edessa being opened for inspection, and so from then on it had been kept closely locked away, and “nulli demonstratur, nulli aperitur, nec ipsi Constantinopolitano imperatori;” “not shown to anybody, not opened for anybody, not even the emperor of Constantinople.”
As the Image of Edessa did not arrive in Constantinople until 944 AD, this story appears to date from after that time, and why not? But Markwardt has decided that the earthquake was actually much earlier, and the author of Tarragonensis 55 misidentified the relic, which was actually the Image of Camuliana. One website18 lists the dates of twenty-six earthquakes in Constantinople between 300 and 1000 AD, nineteen up to 611, and seven between 740 and 989. You pays your money and you makes your choice.
And so at the end of another four-hour survey of the possible evidence for the Shroud of Turin in Constantinople, what have we got? Certainly a gradually increasing theological emphasis on the humanity of Christ, leading to a lively debate regarding how he was to be portrayed in paint or mosaic, and the dangers of showing a living man. Depicting him as human helped the observer to focus on his suffering, but ran the risk of transferring worship from the subject to the artefact. The argument seems to have swayed back and forth between Canon 82 of the Quinisext Council in 692 AD (for), the iconoclasm of Leo II in 830 AD (against), the Second Council of Nicaea in 787 AD (for), the iconoclasm of Leo V in 815 AD (against), and finally the Council of Constantinople in 843 AD (for). The theological argument may have been augmented by a more practical consideration of the value of images as apotropaic – when they helped Byzantium against its enemies, they were in favour; when they didn’t seem to ‘work,’ they were hidden away. In support of the iconodules, acheiropoieta emerged, most numerously, although I have not discussed them here, of the Virgin Mary. We can’t tell how many there were of Christ, but each of two or three origin-stories seem to have spawned more than one.
But does any of it amount to evidence for the Shroud? So far, there has been no reference among any of the actual relics or icons to the burial cloths of Christ, and although they have been part of Christian liturgy since the 300s AD, this is due to the liturgy’s dense symbolism rather than a reference to any artefact, as we have seen in the discussion of Theodore of Mopsuestia’s liturgy in the previous podcast.
In conclusion, the development of Christian theology, ritual and art in Byzantium before the year 1000 AD is a fascinating and intricate area of scholarly study, and has been extensively explored by scholars for hundreds of years. None of them have found it necessary to invoke the Shroud to account for any of it, and no evidence for the existence of the Shroud can be derived from it.
But there are still several episodes to go…
1 ‘Shroud Wars: Panel Review (Part 14)- Shroud History from 501-900 A.D.’ Real Seekers, youtube.com/watch?v=y4_ZmnCWoOg&t=32s
2 The Spiritual Meadow of John Moschos, trans. John Wortley, 1992
3 Les Saints Stylites, Hippolyte Delehaye, 1923
4 A History of Antioch in Syria from Seleucus to the Arab Conquest, Glanville Downey, 1961
5 See, for example the Ecclesiastical History of Evagrius Scholasticus, Book 4, Chapter 27, written about 590 AD, describing how in 544 AD the besieged Edessans succeeded in getting a fire, built in an underground tunnel, to ignite. “The mine was completed; but they failed in attempting to fire the wood, because the fire, having no exit whence it could obtain a supply of air, was unable to take hold of it. In this state of utter perplexity, they bring the divinely wrought image, which the hands of men did not form, but Christ our God sent to Abgarus on his desiring to see Him. Accordingly, having introduced this holy image into the mine, and washed it over with water, they sprinkled some upon the timber; and the divine power forthwith being present to the faith of those who had so done, the result was accomplished which had previously been impossible: for the timber immediately caught the flame, and being in an instant reduced to cinders, communicated with that above, and the fire spread in all directions.”
6 See the Chronicle of Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor, Book 12, Chapter 4, written about 570 AD. The beginning of the story is missing, but seems to have described a discussion which a lady of Camulia was having with a priest or confessor. “She said to him, ‘How can I worship someone who is invisible, and whom I do not know?’ The next day, she was strolling in her garden, thinking about all this, when suddenly, submerged in a pool of water, she saw the image of Jesus, our Lord, painted on a cloth. When she pulled it up, it was not wet. Astonished, she covered it with her own headscarf out of reverence, and took it to her instructor. As she unwrapped it, they discovered a copy of the image found in the water, reproduced on her headscarf.”
7 See the Itinerary of an anonymous pilgrim from Piacenza, Section 44, written about 590 AD, about a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and Egypt in 570 AD. “In Memphis there was a temple, now a church, one of the main doors of which closed when our Lord went there with the blessed Mary, and cannot now be opened. There we saw the linen ‘pallium,’ on which is the image of the Saviour, of whom it is said that he wiped his face with it, and his image, which is venerated at special times, remained on it. We also venerated it, but because of its brilliance we could not focus on it; the more we tried, the more it seemed to change before our eyes.” This same pilgrim had earlier been shown an image of Christ in Jerusalem, painted from life.
8 See, for example, ‘The Cult of Images in the Age before Iconoclasm,’ Ernst Kitzinger, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, Volume 8, 1954
9 Iconography of Christian Art, Volume 2, Gertrud Schiller, 1972
10 Cross and Crucifix in Christian Worship and Devotion, Cyril Edward Pocknee, 1962
11 This is discussed at length in The Canon and the Icon: Some Reflections on Canon 82 of Quinisext Council, Ioan Cozma, 2017
12 ‘The First Historical Reference to the Image on the Shroud – the Old Spanish Liturgy,’ Mark Guscin, British Society for the Turin Shroud Newsletter, Issue 71, 2010
13 Missale Mixtum Secundum Regulam Beati Isidori Dictum Mozarabes,
14 ‘Enshrouded in Silence: In search of the First Millennium of the Holy Shroud,’ Maurus Green, The Ampleforth Journal, 1969
15 The History of Theophylact Simocatta, ed. Michael and Mary Whitby, 1986
16 See Kitzinger (above), and ‘Relics, Images, and Christian Apotropaic Devices in the Roman-Persian Wars (4th-7th Centuries),’ Joaquín Serrano del Pozo, Eikón Imago, 2022
17 ‘Une Description de Constantinople dans le Tarragonensis 55,’ Krijnie N. Ciggaar, Revue des Études Byzantines, 1995
18 dailysabah.com/feature/2018/09/26/istanbuls-nightmare-a-timeline-of-earthquakes-that-shook-the-city
Thank you for your comments, Hugh. These exchanges are useful and clarify some complex matters. I appreciate your latest, more nuanced words on the Antioch-Markwardt-etc. subject.
My earlier comment contained many generalities. Here now are some more detailed points relating to Jack Markwardt and specifically his treatment of the “Hymn of the Pearl,” a short, (probably) third-century spiritual adventure poem from the Middle East – and a delightful one too.
In my view, Markwardt has claimed far too much for the Hymn in identifying words in it with the Turin Shroud. He wrote in his 2021 book (chap. 12) that the “prince” of the poem “represents” Jesus, but that claim is very debatable. Markwardt was thereby citing just a few of the works of scholarship on the Hymn. Some Christian scholars of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries read it that way. They saw a few such similarities and naturally assumed the prince was a Christ figure (despite the fact that the prince does some very undignified things on his wayward journey in the world which do not fit Jesus very well). But many other scholars, especially more recent scholars, have not made that identification. They have instead seen the prince as embodying “the soul” on its journey through life and back to its heavenly home. A Gnostic or Manichaean worldview lies behind the Hymn, in their view. Many or most recent scholars also dispute that the Hymn was composed in or near Edessa, instead widening its possible location of composition to the larger Syrian or Mesopotamian region.
Also, Markwardt wrote in 2021 that the Hymn’s phrase “king of kings” refers to Jesus, and he has continued to say so in his latest comments on the Real Seekers podcast (Shroud Wars: Panel Review, Part 14) of just a few weeks ago (at about minute 10:00?). That really surprises me, to say the least. “King of kings” was a very common title in the ancient Middle East, going back to centuries before Jesus ever lived. It was regularly used of Persian kings, and of course the city of Edessa was right on the border between ancient Persia and the Roman Empire. Some ancient Armenian kings, in Anatolia close to Edessa, also used that “king of kings” title, if I recall right. This is really among the basic facts of Middle Eastern history. In section 6 of your earlier July 15 blog post, “Absence of Evidence 2, Antioch 1,” you briefly summarized and criticized Markwardt’s use of the Hymn as evidence for the Shroud, but you did not go far enough, in my view (not having time to, among other probable factors). Moreover, clothing has long held a very special place in every culture of the world, and perhaps especially in the Middle East. It is looked on as embodying the dignity of the wearer. Many examples could be related, even from our own cultures. “Clothes make the man,” as the saying goes. So it is no wonder that a splendid robe was used to symbolize such divine bliss in the Hymn of the Pearl. The robe is also described in the poem as a multicolored one studded with gems, which does not fit the Shroud at all. Markwardt also wrote that, “the mirrored images of the prince which appear on the robe represent the twin image of Jesus’ body … on the Turin Shroud,” but in reality there are no “mirrored images on the robe.” The prince merely tells of seeing the robe “like a mirror of myself.” This wording could easily be explained by other aspects of the Gnostic worldview. Much more could be said about the Hymn, and about other related topics, but time is flying (that “comments” window is fast closing) so I’ll stop here. I do think it slightly possible that the author of the Hymn of the Pearl was influenced by knowledge of the Turin Shroud, but wouldn’t put much emphasis on that slim possibility.
JL
Thank you, John; I think you make a fair personal assessment of your response, and tread a balanced path between us with appropriate caution.
I agree that I think the Shroud is medieval, but I hope that my arguments based on primary sources may speak for themselves. If my reasoning is wrong, that should be clear to all. (It should be clear to me too, but if I’m too blinded by bigotry, I do hope people will point it out.) My acerbic writing style, I dare say, balances my mild and tolerant demeanour on podcasts such as Real Seekers!
You’re correct too, that these Antioch posts are long and rather intricate. They are a response to eight solid hours of discussion, much of which was based on the subtle reading and interpretation of fairly obscure source material, which demands, if it is to be properly critiqued, more detail and precision than most people really feel like. And we’ve only reached 900 AD!
An important distinction that needs to be made, it seems to me, is between observations that are “consistent with” and those which are “evidence for.” The fact that the moon is mottled is consistent with hypothesis that it is made of green cheese, and every mention of an image of Christ is consistent with it being the Shroud, but that’s not the same as evidence. For that, as you have asked above, we would really like to know what these images looked like – and sadly, we really have no idea.
Best wishes,
Hugh
The facts of these matters may lie somewhere in limbo between Hugh Farey, Jack Markwardt, and Ian Wilson.
With regard to Hugh’s “Absence of Evidence [Part] 3, Antioch Hypothesis [Part] 2,” posted on July 27, 2024, and his related two earlier posts of July 15, it’s important to realize from the start that Hugh is a Turin Shroud authenticity skeptic and has been one for a dozen years or more. These three most recent posts of his seem like a barrage, giving readers little time to react to them, since the Comments windows are only open for two weeks and many people (like me) are busy with other matters. I hadn’t expected Hugh to post again so soon after his last post of July 1, so I only checked on about July 28, only to find it was too late to make any comment on the first two. Anyway, mea culpa. I’m subscribing now for prompt notification.
Hugh’s third such “Absence of Evidence” post focuses on the possible history of the Turin Shroud between the years 501 and 900 as presented in Jack Markwardt’s hypothesis, and as Hugh states in his first sentence.
It’s a very confusing period and the accounts by both Markwardt and Hugh are somewhat confusing too. Hugh gets long-winded in his post, which adds to the difficulty of critiquing it. On the whole, I would say, at this moment, that I partly agree with Hugh, but also partly disagree with him.
Some preliminaries: Jack Markwardt and I corresponded extensively in winter 2019-20 and into that spring about his early route hypotheses for the Turin Shroud during its first millennium. I learned many details of his “Antioch-Camuliana-Constantinople” route scenario (which veered away from some of his previous hypotheses of the 1990s and early 2000s). I thought the evidence was intriguing but some parts stronger than others. His book covering that period and others of the Shroud’s history was then published in 2021, and I read parts of it in 2022. I’ve only read its first several chapters, maybe a dozen, and still have not gotten beyond that. His writing style (repetitions, odd word choice, etc.), lack of an index, very questionable use of at least several sources (e.g. in his Galatians 3.1 chapter), and other matters seemed to me objectionable. But if the book is partly flawed, it also seems perhaps half admirable and worthy of serious consideration.
(I might mention that I have no particular stake in the Turin Shroud question, no major emotional motive to be for or against its authenticity. For about thirty years (from the 1970s on) I had no strong opinion about it, either for or against. But for about twenty years now I’ve thought it probably authentic, and so have researched it on and off, still tending to think its image of Jesus formed naturally in the tomb.)
As for Hugh’s many criticisms of Markwardt’s book or his recent lengthy podcast talk about such historical hypotheses, I had many of the same specific objections, and more, already back in 2020-22, even drafting several potential articles on those questions-. But I had no publishing platform. Others are doubtless in the same situation.
A random observation: Hugh’s writing style in this case is rather acerbic, which is not reassuring of his reasoning or objectivity.
BTW, some weeks ago I listened to the first half of the first such Antioch episode on Dale Glover’s Real Seekers podcast, involving the discussion between Jack and Hugh (and Dale) on that question. Since then I have not yet returned to that episode. No time. Today I listened to part of the second installment of that Antioch discussion, covering the years 500 to 900 approximately. Who has the time for its four long hours and more? In the podcast, Hugh was mostly silent, and, when he did speak, was polite and even agreed with Jack at times. At one point he seemed to say that he had not been aware of some of Jack’s biggest claims (minute 7:30?). That seemed odd; Jack has made that claim for at least several years.
Hugh does seem to make some — repeat, some — valid points. I agree with him on much, or, better said, we agree with each other. As mentioned, I’d actually made many of the same points privately in exchanges with Jack in 2020 and also in drafts of articles in 2020. Jack has, I think, overplayed the strength of some of the evidence in his case. It’s good that Hugh has finally done something in that regard, since no one else in the field had, and several researchers may have jumped too eagerly on Jack’s Antioch-Camuliana bandwagon.
Hugh picks up, on page 1 of his Antioch Part 2 post, with the year 362, but quickly moves to circa 540 AD/CE and the several images of Jesus that began appearing in the sixth century as paintings or statues throughout the Byzantine Empire. He rejects all the evidence that Jack offers, whereas I see at least some of it as consistent with the early existence of the Turin Shroud in that general region, especially when that historical evidence is added to all the forensic, microscopic evidence on the Shroud itself — blood, blood flow patterns, scourge wound patterns, life size figure of a crucified man, naked figure, precise anatomical details, the still mysterious image formation process, etc., etc. If all that physical evidence is true, the Shroud must also have taken some geographical path or route from Jerusalem in the first century to Constantinople later and eventually over to France. What other routes are there any possible trace of?
Trying to follow Hugh’s written critique is difficult. The reader must really know and remember in detail the podcast with Jack M. that he is critiquing, and few people are probably up to that task. After all, it’s very long, the acoustic quality is not the best, and the words appearing in captions are sometimes incorrect. I sense that Hugh may at times have left out important facts, sidestepping the evidence (see, for example, my several earlier comments on Hugh’s posts from early 2024, noting flaws in them).
What did the sixth-century Image of Camuliana, or its possible later form as the Image of God Incarnate, actually look like? Is there any ancient documentation on that question? Both of them disappeared many centuries ago, unless the Turin Shroud today is their latest form. But what testimony about the ancient forms still exists? How were they described by witnesses? Was there ever any mention of their being life size? Full body vs. face of Jesus only? Hazy in outline? Monochromatic in color? A bearded man? A double image? A naked image? Blood stains, and if so, where? Scourge wounds? A burial cloth? Were any attempts at copying or otherwise representing the Image artistically ever made, as was the case with the many copies or representations of the Edessa Mandylion image of Jesus?
If even a few of Markwardt’s suggested “sightings” of the Turin Shroud in Antioch, Camuliana, or Constantinople are correct, that would be “enough.” He would not have to get all of them right. Of course, Hugh would still be quite correct in criticizing the other, weaker ones. But who could finally say which are which?
Hugh never seems to recognize that an image of a dead Jesus lying in his tomb would not have been inspiring and therefore would not have been promoted publicly in the early centuries of Christianity, which would thus account for the fact that both the Image of Edessa and, apparently, the Image of Camuliana and/or God Incarnate were described as being “from life,” created by Jesus himself when he was alive.
Jack’s case against the Edessa location for the Turin Shroud seems to rest mainly on only a few items of evidence. He emphasizes too strongly, I think, Ian Wilson’s mistaken original (1978) first century claim for a Turin Shroud presence in Edessa, that is, Wilson’s closely following the Abgar V legend involving the early apostle Thaddaeus coming to Edessa. The Image of Edessa was moved from Edessa to Constantinople in the mid-tenth century, and the hypothesis that it was indeed the Turin Shroud does not rest on its presence there as far back as the first century. If it was there from the second or third century on up to the tenth century, I’d still say that Wilson’s “Edessa location hypothesis” would be very largely correct. Seven or eight correct out of ten centuries is not a bad batting average. Such a scenario might comprise a synthesis of the Wilson and Markwardt positions. Maybe it went to Edessa circa 190 and then remained there till 944. Maybe not.
A final question: Could the sixth-century Image of Camuliana, and its possible later form in Constantinople as the Image of God Incarnate, both have been based on, inspired by, a true, authentic, and mysterious image of Jesus that was known as the Image of Edessa? The geographical proximity of Camuliana in central Anatolia (Cappadocia) to both Antioch and Edessa seems consistent with some such possible connection between them. The image did not just suddenly appear in faraway Constantinople, did it? Or, did some people in, or formerly from, Antioch retain vague memories of a time when the Turin Shroud was present there, thus prompting them to create that sixth-century Image of Camuliana?
By the way, Hugh’s first July 15 post, dealing with the Lirey Shroud question in 1300s France, seems to me valid on certain points but dubious on other points. No time here to get specific. Sorry.
More evidence in these complicated matters may well turn up in the near future. Let us hope so. Meanwhile, “half congratulations” to both or all of you!
(Apologies for any mistakes or rambling thoughts in this comment.)
John Loken