June 2, 2010

The Holy Shroud: ‘An icon written in blood’

By David Migoya

TURIN, Italy—The first thing you look for is the face.

Then your eyes drift to the left to find the hands.

You see the blood. There is lots of blood.

And no matter who you are or why you are there, you cannot help but be moved.

The Holy Shroud of Turin—known in Italy simply as Santa Sindone (Holy Shroud)—for centuries has mesmerized, perplexed, tantalized, befuddled, even calmed millions and millions of people.

The faithful, the believer, the skeptic, the holy, the pilgrim, even the agnostic. No matter the faith nor the culture, they all come to see it for themselves.

They have been coming since its existence has been known.

Nestled in a sixth century cathedral in downtown Turin, the shroud has remained under lock, key, seal and chest since 1578, when Frenchman Duke Emmanuel Philibert brought it here for St. Charles Borromeo, then archbishop of Milan. The sickly prelate had wished to venerate the linen cloth for sparing his part of the world from the deathly grip of the plague that had wiped out so much of the European populace.

It is only occasionally displayed publicly, though this year’s exposition is a mere 10 years after the last, an unexpected surprise that leaves one to believe it will be decades before the next.

In the last century there were only five public showings, known as expositions. This is the third since 1998, a curious frequency that gives no insight as to methodology nor reason. The next display was to be in 2025, but the Turin Archdiocese, asking its faithful to focus on Christ’s passion in 2010, requested special permission to display the shroud. The expo was titled “Passio Christi, Passio Hominis” (“Passion of Christ, Passion of Man”).
More fascinating than the when or why of the displays is the actual viewing of the cloth.

What we see of the image on the shroud today is much as it was when St. Charles saw it for himself, though experts say it is fading.

Fading or not, in a word, it is stunning.

And it doesn’t matter whether you believe it is the actual burial cloth of Jesus of Nazareth or not.

I have been a shroud enthusiast—researchers and devotees of the roughly 14-foot linen of herringbone pattern are called sindonologists—since 1976, when a Jesuit priest introduced me and my classmates to its mysteries.

Since then, it has remained a deep desire to actually see the cloth despite the numerous life-size and quite-real-looking photocopies that abound. Besides, I always felt I owed it to Father Reginald Groenwold, who, sadly, died without ever having laid eyes upon it despite the number of young men he’d initiated into the stimulating world of sindonology.

When the opportunity arose to witness this year’s exposition, it was not a difficult choice to make the 14-hour airplane journey to Turin.

More than 2 million people visited the shroud during its relatively brief six-week showing, which ended May 23. My wife and I were among them the morning of May 9, Mother’s Day.

And it felt as if they were all there with us.

Lines outside the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist—both of people and the monstrous tour buses that brought them from parts unknown—were interminably long. Much like the rest of Italy, the American sense of personal space does not exist. Everyone shuffles and squeezes into the available space without pause or apology.

The cacophony of languages you hear among the throng is at first disarming, then entertaining, as if a symphony of tongues. It is a testament to the Apostles and the breadth of their ministry.

You are glad to be there.

The journey is relatively quick and takes you winding through ancient Roman ruins and porticos of old brick tunnels. Marble busts of unknown long-ago persons fill the little screened naves, less a show of artistry than a means of breaking the monotony of shuffling toward the shroud.

Inside St. John’s Cathedral, it is dark. The windows of the dome are covered as are the stained glass that adorn the chapels.

Then, suddenly, it is there. Sideways and framed, backlit to ensure you see the image. Without the lighting the image would be nearly imperceptible.

The first impression is that the shroud is smaller than you expect.

There are two viewing areas—the line of individuals who asked for and received free tickets via Web site registration, like us, and the central part of the church where anyone can enter and look from a distance.
I end up front and center to the shroud, just to the left of the midpoint between the frontal and dorsal images, and am surrounded by about 300 others who are given their 10 minutes before the cloth (15 minutes on weekday viewings).

It is silent. Some pray. Nearly everyone stares.

Having seen images of the shroud countless times you are struck by the burn holes and scorch lines from fires, mostly left there in 1532. Despite my proximity, I lift my binoculars to look closer.

I take a moment to stare directly into the sunken eyes.

I am face to face with the shroud.

Among the other viewers there are looks of shock at the wounds, a realization of the suffering the individual shown on the cloth experienced. It takes no time to sense the anguish, the pain, the torture, the brutality of a crucifixion.

The Church has never commented on the authenticity of the shroud, instead ensuring it remains a personal focus of faith and understanding. Pope Benedict XVI, after venerating the cloth during a May 2 visit, said it is an “icon written with blood: the blood of a man flagellated, crowned with thorns, crucified and wounded on his right side.”

Just as the Gospels say Jesus suffered.

The silence before the shroud is broken with a soft Italian voice, a woman, providing information about the cloth.

Then, suddenly, you are escorted away and you are numb.

Walking along the seven porticos, I’m struck at how plain the structure of this cathedral really is, especially when compared to the many others throughout Italy.

Outside, along St. John Square, there is a milling of people, hundreds of them. Police from several different organizations and their colorful uniforms keep watch. A train passes noisily by and I think how curious a place to put a train.
I step into the main part of the cathedral again, simply to witness the flow of people going in to view, pray, pay homage.

It’s a stunning mass of humanity, of people moving to be closer to the one man, the image.

Whether it is or is not Christ seems to be immaterial.

Later, I purchase the one souvenir of my trip. Fittingly American, it is a T-shirt with the reversed photo image of the face, the one taken by Giuseppe Enrie in 1931 to prove Secondo Pia’s photos of 1898 were not faked.

Across the bottom of the image, in Italian, my silent witness is made clear.

“Io credo” (I believe).

David Migoya is an award-winning reporter for The Denver Post and freelance writer on a variety of topics.