Shroud of Turin: Real or Fake? (A Scholar’s Take)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

More than six years ago, my brother gave me a book he thought would pique my curiosity: The Sign by Polish art historian Thomas de Wesselow. The book was enormous, and yet I read it in just two days. I was completely absorbed by the mystery it explored: The Shroud of Turin, perhaps the most famous Christian relic in the world.

De Wesselow’s argument was as bold as it was controversial. I didn’t agree with his conclusions, but I was fascinated by the idea that a simple piece of cloth could carry such enormous historical, theological, and cultural weight.

Over the years, my perspective on the Shroud has evolved, shaped by scholarly research, scientific inquiry, and a broader understanding of relics in Christian history. What makes the Shroud of Turin so compelling isn’t merely the faint image of a crucified man that appears to mark its surface, but the convergence of faith, science, skepticism, and art that surrounds it.

For some, it’s Jesus’ shroud — proof of his suffering, death, and perhaps even resurrection. For others, it’s a masterfully crafted medieval forgery, a product of its time. 

In this article, I’ll approach the Shroud of Turin not as a believer or a cynic, but as a historian committed to critical examination and evidence. We’ll first look at what the Shroud actually is and trace its known history.

Then, we’ll delve into the strongest arguments presented in support of its authenticity before turning to the counter-evidence that points to a medieval origin. My aim isn’t to mock faith or dismiss mystery, but to ask: Can the Shroud of Turin truly be what some claim it is? Let’s take a look!

However, before we begin our journey into the mystery of the Shroud, why not explore the broader question at the heart of it all? Watch the compelling online debate between Bart D. Ehrman and Mike Licona: “Did the Resurrection of Jesus Really Happen?” It’s a fascinating exchange of ideas and arguments! You won't be disappointed.

What is the Shroud of Turin: A Brief Overview

The Shroud of Turin is a long linen cloth bearing the faint, front-and-back image of a man who appears to have suffered physical trauma consistent with crucifixion. Measuring approximately 4.4 meters long and 1.1 meters wide (about 14.3 by 3.7 feet), the cloth has been kept for centuries in the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin, Italy.

Its most distinctive feature is the sepia-toned imprint of a naked man, his hands crossed over his pelvis, with visible marks that many interpret as wounds from scourging, crucifixion, and a spear thrust to the side. The cloth is woven in a herringbone twill pattern, and its fibers have been the subject of intense scientific scrutiny.

The Shroud first entered the historical record in the 14th century in the small town of Lirey, France. Over time, it has been venerated by many as the actual burial shroud of Jesus Christ.

Although the Shroud had been venerated for centuries, it wasn’t until the late 19th century that a discovery dramatically heightened its mystery. In 1898, an Italian amateur photographer and lawyer named Secondo Pia was granted permission to photograph the Shroud during a public exhibition in Turin.

Jean-Christian Petitfils, in his book Le Saint Suaire de Turin (The Holy Shroud of Turin), recounts the way an Italian photographer took the photos:

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When Pia developed his photographic plates, he was stunned to discover that the negative image appeared as a photographic positive, revealing startling details of the figure on the cloth with far greater clarity than the naked eye could see.

Pilgrims and scholars alike have been drawn to its mysterious image, and it has been the focus of numerous scientific tests, theological debates, and public exhibitions. The French zoologist Yves Delage noted:

His insight captures the heart of the problem. Precisely because the Shroud is associated with the central figure of Christianity, our deeply Christianized world, despite the rise of secularism in Western societies, has infused it with profound religious significance, as if its authenticity could somehow validate Christianity itself.

As a result, critical voices are often dismissed as merely anti-religious or hostile to faith. Yet if we are to do justice to this extraordinary artifact, we must approach it with the same skeptical and critical mindset we would apply to any other historical object, following the evidence where it leads, whether from history or science.

The Shroud of Turin: Evidence for the Authenticity

Over the past century, the mystery of the Shroud of Turin has given rise to a distinct field of study known as sindonology. This strange term is derived from the Greek word sindon, meaning a linen cloth. 

From the early 1900s onward, passionate individuals, often self-styled scholars rather than academic historians or scientists, dedicated themselves to defending the Shroud’s authenticity. They believe this mysterious item is Jesus’ shroud.

As Joe Nickell aptly observed, “from the turn of the century, self-styled 'sindonologists' have been crusading for acceptance of the ‘relic’ as authentic,” even though the Catholic Church itself has historically avoided making any definitive pronouncement about the Shroud’s authenticity.

These researchers formed a community with a clear mission: To gather evidence, scientific or otherwise, that would establish the Shroud as the true burial cloth of Jesus Christ. Similarly, Andrea Nicolotti, in his book The Shroud of Turin, notes:

With that context in mind, let’s begin by examining the common argumenta pro regarding the Shroud’s authenticity.

Wounds on the Wrist, Not the Palms

This is probably my favorite argument to which syndonologists consistently return. According to this line of thinking, and in contrast to most medieval portrayals of Jesus, a close look at the Shroud of Turin hands reveals a man whose piercing wounds are located not in the palms but the wrists.

Syndonologists claim that experimental research, particularly by forensic experts, such as Pierre Barbet, showed that the weight of a crucified body would cause the hands to tear completely free if nails were driven through the palms. Instead, they argue that the nails pierced the wrists, specifically at a region anatomists call the “Space of Destot.”

As Thomas de Wesselow summarizes:

On the surface, this seems like a persuasive piece of evidence for the Shroud’s authenticity. But what should we make of this argument upon closer examination?

Even if we concede that the Shroud of Turin indeed depicts a person whose wrists were pierced — and that point, as Wesselow himself admits, remains uncertain — this would hardly serve as definitive proof of authenticity.

First and foremost, it’s incorrect to assume that all medieval representations of Jesus' crucifixion depict nails driven through the palms. As Joe Nickell points out, researchers Donald and Joan Janney “found ‘several’ crucifixes dating from the Middle Ages in which the nails distinctly penetrate the wrist, not the palm.”

Furthermore, medieval religious imagination was often fueled by visionary experiences. Notably, Saint Bridget of Sweden (14th century) described Christ’s crucifixion wounds as being located “where the bone was hardest” (manum ipsam ex ea parte perforabant, qua os solidius erat), a description that fits the wrist area.

Visions like hers could easily have inspired artistic renditions and relics reflecting a wrist-wounded Christ. In other words, the notion of crucifixion through the wrist was neither unprecedented nor unknown to medieval people. Rather, it was part of the religious and cultural imagination well before the Shroud of Turin surfaced in historical records.

But what about the scientific claim that a nail must pierce the wrist to sustain the weight of a crucified body? Here, again, the evidence is less conclusive than syndonologists suggest.

Studies have shown that a nail driven through the Space of Destot wouldn’t necessarily provide more reliable support than one driven through the palm. As Dr. Anthony Sava noted:

Similarly, Dr. Frederick T. Zugibe, a well-respected forensic pathologist, conducted experiments showing that when a nail is driven through the thenar fissure of the palm, it exits between the base of the metacarpal bones of the index and second fingers and the two corresponding carpal bones, precisely at a structurally sound point corresponding to the imprint seen on the Shroud.

At this point, he emphasized, the body would remain firmly suspended, a conclusion he verified through experiments involving cadavers.

Moreover, syndonologists often overlook another crucial detail: The victim’s arms didn’t have to bear the full weight of the body. Historical and archaeological evidence suggests that Roman crosses often featured a small footrest (suppedaneum) or a seat (sedile), intended to prolong the agony of the crucified.

This detail is depicted, for example, in the famous Palatine Graffito, an ancient image mocking a Christian named Alexamenos, which shows a crucified figure supported in part by a small ledge. With this support, the strain on the arms would have been significantly reduced, making palm crucifixion not only possible but historically plausible.

In short, while the wrist wound argument remains a favored point among defenders of the Shroud’s authenticity, critical examination reveals it to be far less decisive than it first appears. Neither historical art, religious visions, nor scientific experiments exclude the possibility of palm-wounded crucifixion.

The 3D Properties From the VP-8 Image Analyzer

One of the most frequently cited arguments by proponents of the Shroud of Turin’s authenticity is that it exhibits three-dimensional properties when analyzed using a VP-8 Image Analyzer. 

This claim gained particular traction in the late 1970s, when a group of American scientists formed the Shroud of Turin Research Project (STURP) to conduct an in-depth scientific analysis of the cloth. Among their most publicized findings was the assertion that the Shroud’s image produced an anatomically consistent 3D relief, unlike typical photographs.

This device, developed by NASA to create depth maps from photographs of planetary surfaces, interprets brightness levels as spatial information, converting 2D images into 3D reliefs. 

In 1976, researchers John Jackson and Eric Jumper used the VP-8 on a photograph of the Shroud and claimed that, unlike ordinary photographs, the Shroud’s image yielded a coherent three-dimensional representation of a human form.

As they claim in a later article:

This finding fueled excitement among Shroud enthusiasts, as it was thought to suggest that the image was not merely a medieval painting or forgery.

Before proceeding further, I need to clarify that I am by no means an expert in computer vision or 3D modeling. Nevertheless, I rely here on scholarly analyses such as the study by Nicola Chinellato, who examined the claim critically using modern computational techniques.

He employed a three-dimensional morphable model (a sophisticated tool from computer vision) to assess whether the Shroud's face image truly contains three-dimensional information indicative of a real human face. His findings were cautious but revealing. 

Chinellato showed that while it’s indeed possible to generate a three-dimensional surface from the Shroud’s image, this ability isn’t unique to the Shroud. In fact, he demonstrated that similar three-dimensional effects can be obtained from random images or textured surfaces, especially when the brightness of an image is loosely interpreted as representing spatial depth.

Moreover, Chinellato critically points out the methodological problems underlying the VP-8 experiment. There is little publicly available information about exactly how the VP-8 operated, but it seems likely that it processed brightness levels directly into depth information — an assumption that modern computer vision would treat with extreme caution.

Chinellato’s experiments further showed that when the Shroud image is processed without preserving superficial texture or color cues, the resulting three-dimensional model becomes far less convincing. In short, the “3D effect” observed by STURP researchers may owe more to the quirks of image processing and human pattern recognition than to any inherent physical property of the Shroud.

In his conclusion, Chinellato writes:

However, he is also cautious, noting:

In sum, I would advise caution rather than certainty regarding the claim of the Shroud’s three-dimensional portrayal. After all, the question of the Shroud’s authenticity cannot hinge on a single, and at best disputed, piece of evidence.

Instead, it must be approached by considering all relevant data (historical sources, archaeological findings, and scientific analyses together) to reach a truly informed and balanced conclusion.

Pollen Grains from Middle Eastern Plants

Some parties have proposed using microscopic traces of pollen to determine the origin (and perhaps even the authenticity) of the Shroud of Turin. That option seemed both elegant and scientifically persuasive when I first heard it and found it quite impressive (not knowing anything about palynology, the study of microorganisms)

If the cloth truly originated in 1st-century Palestine, wouldn’t it make sense that pollens from that region might have been trapped in its fibers?

This argument gained traction in the 1970s, thanks to Max Frei, a Swiss criminologist who had previously worked in forensic police analysis. Frei obtained adhesive tape samples from the Shroud’s surface and later claimed that he had isolated 34 varieties of pollen from plants that grow exclusively in Palestine and/or southeastern Turkey.

Over time, and through repeated citations in popular books and documentaries, Frei’s claim became “common knowledge.” Thomas de Wesselow asserts (incorrectly) that “others have broadly endorsed” Frei’s report, which illustrates that the argument has taken on an almost mythic status in Shroud apologetics.

However, when examined critically, this theory is far shakier than its public reputation suggests.

First, and most fundamentally, even if Frei’s analysis were accurate (a big “if,” as we’ll see), it wouldn’t necessarily prove the Shroud’s authenticity or antiquity. As Joe Nickell aptly notes:

In other words, pollens could have arrived on the Shroud through any number of channels (e.g., travel, trade, or later contact) and don’t require a 1st-century Palestinian origin. But the problems go deeper.

Max Frei wasn’t a botanist, biologist, or palynologist. He was a criminologist (a forensic microscopist). To my knowledge, he had no formal training in identifying ancient pollen. Worse still, his scientific integrity had already been called into question before his involvement with the Shroud.

Frei had previously resigned from his role as founder and director of the Zurich scientific police after producing a flawed forensic report that contributed to the wrongful life imprisonment of an innocent man.

From a methodological standpoint, Frei’s study suffers from glaring deficiencies. Most notably, he didn’t use control samples, a basic requirement in any legitimate scientific analysis. This alone should raise red flags.

Furthermore, more rigorous studies have demonstrated just how easily pollen samples become contaminated. In laboratory settings, over 80% of slides exposed to air for only a few hours were contaminated by foreign pollens.

The Shroud, which has been displayed, touched, kissed, and even had objects laid upon it to create contact relics, is hardly a controlled environment. As the respected Italian palynologist M. Mariotti Lippi concluded:

There’s also a striking inconsistency here, one that Nicolotti has rightly flagged:

This selective skepticism reveals a troubling confirmation bias among the proponents of authenticity: Evidence is welcomed if it supports authenticity and dismissed if it challenges it.

In the end, behind the story of the alleged 1st-century pollen on the Shroud lies more smoke than substance, and, frankly, the trail leads back to a highly questionable source.

Dr. Steven Schafersman, a micropaleontologist and petrologist, went so far as to accuse Frei of scientific deception. He noted:

Given Frei’s track record, one might be forgiven for wondering if he simply borrowed some plants from a Jerusalem florist and “let nature take its course” over his tape samples.

Before we move on, it’s worth pausing to highlight the sheer scale of Max Frei’s scientific shortcomings, as summarized by Gaetano Ciccone. Ciccone presents a concise but damning list of failures that point not only to Frei’s incompetence but also to his fundamental misunderstanding of basic palynological principles.

#1 – “Frei is mistaken in claiming that pollen grains remain indefinitely intact in a dry environment, when in fact they are attacked and destroyed by oxygen, bacteria, and fungi. He seems unaware of the conditions under which pollens are preserved and fossilized (anaerobic environments, without oxygen) versus those in which they are more or less rapidly altered and destroyed (aerobic environments, with oxygen).”

#2 – “He appears not to understand what a 'pollen spectrum' is, confusing a table listing the quantities or percentages of different types of grains (a true pollen spectrum) with one that merely lists the names of various plant species.”

#3 – “He errs in his species identifications, which, according to other experts, are not possible under an optical microscope and often not even under a scanning electron microscope (SEM). He seems unaware that to credibly identify species, one must also be able to rule out all other plant species with similar or indistinguishable pollen.”

#4 – “He seems unaware of the ease with which objects left in the open air are quickly contaminated by pollen.” (Translation courtesy of Petar Uskovic)

Bloodstain Patterns and Their Supposed Consistency

Another frequently cited argument in favor of the authenticity of the Shroud concerns the distinctive pattern of bloodstains and scourge marks that cover the figure depicted on it.

Proponents argue that these bloodstains match precisely what one might expect from a victim of Roman crucifixion and scourging. Thomas de Wesselow articulates this viewpoint clearly, asserting:

This reasoning, on the surface, sounds impressive and historically precise. The supposed match between the Shroud's bloodstains and the historical Roman scourge (the so-called “flagrum taxillatum”) seems persuasive. However, upon closer scholarly scrutiny, this argument quickly begins to unravel.

In his meticulous article “The Scourge of Jesus and the Roman Scourge,” Andrea Nicolotti provides a comprehensive reassessment of our knowledge regarding Roman scourging instruments. 

He demonstrates that there is a complete absence of reliable archaeological or literary evidence confirming the existence of a scourge with the specific features often attributed to it by Shroud proponents, namely leather thongs tipped with lead balls or bone fragments (taxilli).

Nicolotti shows that what is often called the flagrum taxillatum isn’t an ancient term or attested Roman weapon, but rather a modern scholarly fiction, largely born out of 19th- and 20th-century misinterpretations.

This imagined scourge gained traction through a convergence of three factors:

#1 – Misidentified artifacts, such as Etruscan or decorative items, mistaken for whips

#2 – Misleading dictionary illustrations (especially in works like Anthony Rich’s “Dictionnaire”)

#3 – An apologetic desire to make sense of the marks on the Shroud

These elements were then reinforced by devotional medieval imagery of Christ’s scourging, feeding back into scholarly and popular belief. As Nicolotti compellingly argues, no ancient Roman artifact or unambiguous literary source confirms the use of such a scourge.

Furthermore, the Shroud's bloodstains themselves do not unequivocally indicate ancient Roman scourging.

Basing his arguments both on the scientific evidence (the issue of the blood’s flow) and historical evidence (the signs of the scourging), Nicolotti writes:

Flagellantism was, as art historian Gary Vikan explains, "part of a broader 'blood frenzy' that characterized European church ritual and art from the 13th to the 15th centuries and that stood in stark contrast with the first twelve centuries of Christianity, when references to the shedding of blood are extremely rare.”

Specifically, he notes, there was increasing emphasis in Gothic art, just as the shroud appeared in Lirey, on intense suffering, especially as revealed in images of Christ beaten and crucified.

Consequently, nothing inherently Roman or 1st-century emerges distinctly from the bloodstains or the alleged scourging pattern. In other words, the notion of distinctive “Roman” scourge marks on the Shroud is little more than speculation dressed as forensic proof.

Having critically assessed the common arguments offered in favor of the Shroud's authenticity, it's time now to explore the compelling historical, archaeological, and scientific evidence that points decisively toward a medieval origin.

The Shroud of Turin: Evidence of Medieval Forgery

When I first encountered arguments supporting the medieval origin of the Shroud of Turin, I was admittedly quite resistant. It took me some time (and honest reflection) to realize it was my own confirmation bias keeping me from fully acknowledging these insights.

However, upon careful reconsideration, I came to appreciate that these arguments, when evaluated collectively and impartially, form a robust case that strongly favors the Shroud’s medieval creation.

The Carbon Dating Results

One of the most important scientific examinations of the Shroud of Turin took place in 1988 when three prestigious laboratories (the University of Oxford, the University of Arizona, and ETH Zürich) conducted radiocarbon dating (C-14) of the fabric.

These institutions were specifically chosen because of their extensive expertise in dating ancient artifacts. To ensure maximum scientific integrity, the entire procedure was meticulously documented, filmed, and supervised at every step, with a control sample also tested alongside the Shroud sample.

Moreover, textile experts were carefully consulted to select the optimal location from which to extract the cloth samples, guaranteeing that the test would be performed on fabric representative of the Shroud itself.

When the results were finally announced, they were clear and consistent across all three laboratories: The linen fabric dated from between 1260 and 1390 C.E., firmly placing the Shroud within the medieval period. This finding appeared to decisively end the debate regarding the Shroud’s authenticity.

However, almost immediately after these results became public knowledge, the reaction from syndonologists was swift, vocal, and vehement.

Initially, it was the syndonologists themselves who eagerly advocated the use of radiocarbon dating, confident it would affirm their beliefs. Ironically, once faced with results that contradicted their cherished narrative, they promptly changed course and sought to discredit the very method they had enthusiastically promoted.

Accusations of conspiracy, incompetence, and even deliberate fraud proliferated rapidly among the disappointed believers, though no credible evidence emerged to substantiate these dramatic claims.

Among the more persistent hypotheses was the “sindonological pollution hypothesis,” as Nicolotti calls it. This theory proposes that over centuries, various contaminants (such as candle smoke, sweat, pollen, smog from Turin's skies, oil from hands, and even water from extinguishing the fire of Chambéry in 1532) heavily polluted the linen, artificially skewing the radiocarbon dating results toward a later date.

However, scrutiny quickly undermines this idea. The truth is, the radiocarbon dating method simply isn't significantly sensitive to such surface contamination. 

To produce a dating discrepancy of roughly 1300 years, contamination would need to introduce an astonishing proportion of recent carbon. Specifically, for every 100 original carbon atoms in the fabric, 500 more from the contaminating agents of around 1532 would need to be added — an impossible scenario.

Additionally, all samples underwent rigorous cleaning procedures specifically designed to remove surface contaminants. Indeed, each of the three laboratories employed different, yet equally thorough, cleaning methods to ensure accurate results.

Another creative hypothesis was popularized by former Benedictine monk Joseph Marino and his wife, Sue Benford, who famously claimed divine revelations from the apostle John and Jesus Christ. They argued that the samples used for carbon dating weren’t original fabric but medieval patches skillfully added later to repair the Shroud.

Despite its sensational appeal, this theory is equally untenable. Before cutting, textile experts carefully examined the Shroud, ensuring they selected a representative, original area. 

Accepting Marino and Benford’s theory would mean imagining that these highly respected specialists spent hours closely inspecting the cloth, yet completely overlooked extensive medieval patching. 

Furthermore, to shift the dating results by 13 centuries, the quantity of medieval threads would have to drastically outnumber the original ones, which is an absurd suggestion given the fabric’s structure.

It was no surprise, therefore, when in 2010 the University of Arizona officially reaffirmed its findings, stating clearly:

Ironically, many of these syndonologists passionately embraced Max Frei’s questionable pollen analysis, confidently extracting detailed historical knowledge from a handful of pollen grains, yet became ferocious critics of radiocarbon dating when the results didn't fit their expectations.

Apparently, the credibility of science for syndonologists depends entirely upon whether or not it confirms their preconceived conclusions.

The Shroud of Turin and Its Missing History

One of the strongest pieces of historical evidence pointing toward the medieval origin of the Shroud of Turin is its suspiciously late emergence into historical records. The earliest unambiguous references date to the 14th century. 

More specifically, the Shroud of Turin emerged around the year 1355, when a knight named Geoffroy de Charny began publicly displaying the cloth in the small French town of Lirey. This chronology fits remarkably well with the radiocarbon dating results mentioned above.

More tellingly, the local ecclesiastical authorities immediately expressed skepticism. In a revealing letter addressed to Pope Clement VII, Pierre d’Arcis, the Bishop of Troyes at the time, explicitly stated that the Shroud was a forgery. 

His words leave no ambiguity: “After diligent inquiry and examination, he [an earlier Bishop of Troyes, Henri of Poitiers] discovered the fraud and how the said cloth had been cunningly painted, the truth being attested by the artist who had painted it.”

This documented statement by Bishop d'Arcis is historically significant. According to him, his predecessor Henri of Poitiers had uncovered the deception firsthand, confronting and identifying the very artist who had produced this clever forgery.

Thus, as soon as the Shroud appeared, local church authorities promptly recognized it as a fabricated relic. This episode, meticulously recorded, makes it difficult to deny the medieval origins of the Shroud.

About a year ago, I attended a lecture delivered in a local church by a young theologian who had written his master's thesis on the Shroud. The church was full, predominantly with believers deeply committed to the Shroud’s authenticity.

Unsurprisingly, the young lecturer passionately articulated exactly what the audience wanted to hear. Yet what struck me most profoundly was his attempt to establish a direct historical link between the Shroud of Turin and an earlier Christian relic known as the Mandylion of Edessa.

The Mandylion of Edessa, historically speaking, is an ancient Christian relic that first “appeared” in a text from the 6th century. However, in his book From the Mandylion of Edessa to the Shroud of Turin, Nicolotti notes:

It all started with an apocryphal account of Jesus’ correspondence with the Syrian king Abgar, first mentioned in the 4th century by Church historian Eusebius. 

The emergence of the relic, however, is closely tied to the 6th-century Syrian source called Acts of Mar Mari. According to the legend, there was a miraculous portrait of Jesus’ face imprinted on a piece of cloth sent to King Abgar to heal him.

Over time, this modest tale of ancient pen pals and portraiture took on a life of its own. What began as a simple exchange of letters gradually morphed into a miraculous cloth with divine powers, and some serious image upgrades along the way.

Take a look at the timeline below to see how this transformation unfolded. Just remember: All of these sources were composed centuries after Jesus’ death, with no reliable information about the alleged contacts between the historical Jesus and the Syrian king

Syndonologists frequently assert that the Mandylion (Jesus’ face cloth) and the Shroud of Turin are actually the same object, arguing that the former was secretly a folded burial cloth, displaying only Jesus’ face but concealing a full-body image. 

They insist that the Mandylion thus provides the missing historical link, suggesting the Shroud of Turin existed well before its 14th-century emergence.

During the mentioned lecture, the young theologian made some deeply troubling claims. For instance, he confidently asserted that the Mandylion was explicitly mentioned at the Second Council of Nicaea in 787, which is simply incorrect. As it turns out, no primary sources from this council confirm such a statement.

He also presented legendary accounts, including the mythical correspondence between Abgar and Jesus, as solid historical evidence. 

What was most unsettling was his complete disregard for historical method: Legends, written centuries after the events they described, were treated as if they were trustworthy historical documents. No historian would ever claim that the Syrian king really wrote to Jesus!

To fully analyse all the shortcomings of this theory, I would need to write a separate article. In this case, Nicolotti’s conclusion should suffice:

In sum, historical evidence firmly places the Shroud’s first appearance in 14th-century France, where it immediately faced accusations of forgery by contemporary religious authorities.

The attempt by syndonologists to retroactively anchor the Shroud’s existence in earlier relics like the Mandylion reveals not only a profound misunderstanding of historical sources, but also a disregard for the critical methods essential to studying Christian history.

A Time of Relic Forgery: The Medieval Context

A powerful supporting argument in favor of the medieval origin of the Shroud of Turin is the broader historical context of relic production during the Middle Ages. It was a period when Christian relics proliferated widely throughout Europe.

These objects (supposedly physical remnants connected directly to Christ, his apostles, or prominent saints) quickly became central to medieval spirituality. More pragmatically, however, relics were significant sources of revenue, prestige, and economic prosperity. 

Churches, monasteries, and towns competed fiercely to attract pilgrims by presenting extraordinary relics, often without concern for historical authenticity.

This phenomenon sometimes reached absurd extremes. It was commonly joked that if one counted all the “genuine” relics from the Middle Ages, John the Baptist would have possessed multiple heads, and Jesus himself could boast more than one foreskin.

Various cities and monasteries claimed they had the true head of John the Baptist, prompting amused medieval observers and later historians alike to wonder how many heads the Baptist actually had.

This competitive and lucrative relic trade led inevitably to widespread forgery, fraud, and deception. Indeed, the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215 explicitly warned the faithful against being “deceived by lying stories or false documents [associated with alleged relics], as has commonly happened in many places on account of the desire for profit.”

Within this context, the sudden appearance of the Shroud of Turin in the 14th century fits perfectly into a well-known historical pattern. Relics were incredibly profitable, drawing pilgrims from far and wide, generating local fame, and significantly enriching individuals, churches, and towns that housed them.

Fabricating a relic as significant as the burial cloth of Jesus would hardly have been extraordinary. Rather, it would have been entirely consistent with established medieval practices. Today, critical historians, as Dale C. Allison notes, “deem all alleged relics associated with Jesus to be counterfeits.” The Shroud of Turin fits perfectly within that category.

Jean-Christian Petitfils aptly summarizes this historical reality, noting:

Consequently, Allison rightly observes:

The Shroud of Turin in Comparison With the Only 1st-Century Burial Cloth Discovered

To further assess the authenticity of the Shroud of Turin, we must compare it with genuine archaeological evidence from 1st-century Palestine. As it turns out, there is only one reliably dated burial cloth from this exact historical context: The textile fragments recovered from the so-called “Tomb of the Shroud” at Akeldama in Jerusalem.

This tomb, carefully excavated by archaeologists, contained burial remains confidently dated by radiocarbon to between the late 1st century B.C.E. and the early 1st century C.E.

The textiles from Akeldama differ fundamentally from the Shroud of Turin. Crucially, the burial cloth found there isn’t a single uniform linen sheet, but rather comprises at least four separate fabric pieces made from different materials, woven in simple, plain weaves typical of ancient Jewish textiles. 

This sharply contrasts with the Shroud of Turin, a large, singular piece of linen woven using a complex 3/1 herringbone twill weave. Importantly, this sophisticated herringbone weave has never been archaeologically attested in any first-century burial context from Israel.

Moreover, molecular analyses conducted at Akeldama have further strengthened this archaeological evidence. The study, published in PLOS ONE, confirms that textiles found alongside skeletal remains of a sealed loculus within this tomb were indeed contemporaneous with the early 1st century C.E.

Furthermore, genetic tests revealed tuberculosis and leprosy pathogens in these remains, emphasizing the tomb's unique importance, yet revealing nothing that could support the authenticity or the weaving structure of the Shroud of Turin.

Thus, when the Shroud of Turin is examined alongside genuine, scientifically validated first-century burial cloths, it emerges not as an authentic relic of the ancient Middle East but as yet another artifact aligning closely with medieval European artistic and textile practices.

Conclusion

The Shroud of Turin continues to captivate imaginations across the world, but when weighed against the combined force of historical records, scientific testing, and archaeological evidence, its origin appears unmistakably medieval.

The strongest arguments for its authenticity are consistently undermined by flawed methodology, ideological bias, or an absence of corroborating data. By contrast, the evidence pointing to a 14th-century origin is cumulatively decisive.

Perhaps more revealing than any individual argument is the psychological mechanism underpinning many defenses of the Shroud: Confirmation bias, the very human tendency to seek, favor, and remember information that confirms our preexisting beliefs.

This bias is especially evident in the selective acceptance of certain scientific methods (such as palynology or mechanical dating) when they support authenticity, and their wholesale rejection when they don’t (as with radiocarbon dating). 

Would I like it if the Shroud of Turin were truly Jesus’s burial cloth? Of course I would! Just imagine the insights we could gain — the historical, theological, and cultural significance would be immense. But I have to set those wishes aside and approach the evidence from a critical, objective, and neutral standpoint.

Finally, it’s worth remembering that the inability to precisely replicate the Shroud’s image today does not prove it’s miraculous or ancient.

Many historical artifacts (e.g., Damascus steel, certain illuminated manuscripts, etc.) are difficult to reproduce, not because they are supernatural, but because the specific techniques, materials, and environmental conditions that produced them have been lost. In the case of the Shroud, mystery alone isn’t evidence of authenticity. Far from it!