I just finished reading Ross Douthat’s 2025 bestseller, Believe: Why Everyone Should Be Religious. Douthat, a conservative columnist and public intellectual, is known for writing at the intersection of politics, culture, and his Catholic faith, often in The New York Times. The book is a wide-ranging, intellectually grounded defense of faith in an age of doubt. Douthat offers arguments from science, consciousness, history, and moral intuition to suggest that religious belief is not only defensible—it may be necessary. But as I read, I found myself pausing over what wasn’t there. There is no mention of the Shroud of Turin.

I don’t think that’s an oversight. I think it’s intentional—and telling.

Any consideration of the Shroud’s authenticity ought to begin with Scripture. The Gospels state that Jesus was crucified, that his body was buried in a tomb, and that the tomb was found open and empty. John alone describes burial cloths in detail, noting that Peter saw linen wrappings and a separate cloth that had been on Jesus’ head (John 20:6–7 NRSV). But there is no suggestion in any Gospel of a miraculously imprinted cloth. The burial linens are never mentioned again. If such a thing existed—especially one bearing an image of the crucified Christ—wouldn’t someone have said something? Paul, whose letters are among the earliest Christian writings and had every reason to be persuasive, never mentions such a cloth. His arguments for the resurrection rely on appearances and transformed lives, not relics. And the Gospels and Acts, written decades later—forty, fifty, even seventy years after the events—draw on strong verbal traditions, shaped by worship and memory. Wouldn’t a cloth bearing an image have been remembered, cherished, and written down? Wouldn’t it have surfaced somewhere in these texts, if not as proof, then at least as an object of wonder or testimony?

Yes, one can speculate as to why it isn’t mentioned—that it was hidden, lost, suppressed, or overlooked. But such speculations quickly lean toward conspiracy or strained inference. In the end, it just makes sense at the “duh” level: they didn’t mention it because it wasn’t there.

That, as I’ve written elsewhere, is the basic “duh” of Shroud skepticism—not a scholarly argument from silence but a common-sense reaction from anyone with only passing awareness of the Shroud. For most people, the carbon-14 dating suggesting a medieval origin is more than enough to prompt doubt. Add to that the simple fact that the Gospels say nothing about any burial cloth bearing a full-body image of the crucified Jesus—and that Paul, who was always eager to persuade, never mentions it either—and the case looks shaky. Yes, ancient sources are incomplete. Yes, silence alone doesn’t prove something didn’t exist. But when something as visually and theologically extraordinary as a miraculous image-bearing burial cloth goes totally unmentioned across all canonical and early post-canonical writings, the silence becomes functional. It resonates with ordinary believers. No need for fringe theories about collimated radiation or encoded iconography. If the Shroud were an authentic, known relic from the first century, it seems someone—somewhere—would have said something.

And here’s the deeper problem for authenticity claims: the Catholic Church itself remains officially noncommittal. Despite centuries of devotion and recent scientific reexaminations, Rome has never declared the Shroud authentic. That silence, too, speaks volumes—because if the Church that preserves it won’t affirm it, why should a casual observer?

Douthat’s omission of the Shroud fits his larger project. He is not building his case on relics or forensic claims. He wants to persuade skeptics and secular readers that belief in God, and specifically in the Christian tradition, is intellectually coherent and spiritually vital. The Shroud, for all its mystery, is scientifically contested and theologically unnecessary. Including it might have made the book feel like an apologetics grab bag, or worse, a concession to pseudo-science.

Moreover, Douthat consistently avoids tactics that might alienate thoughtful readers. The Shroud, with its long history of dubious claims and disputed tests, is easy to dismiss—and hard to verify. To invoke it in an argument for belief would be, ironically, to weaken the argument. It risks making faith seem desperate for proof, when Douthat’s whole point is that belief can stand on firmer ground.

In the end, Douthat doesn’t mention the Shroud because he doesn’t need to. His book is about reason, meaning, and trust. It’s about belief as a response to a world that, for all its order and beauty, still leaves us with yearning. In that framework, the absence of the Shroud is not a problem. It’s a reminder: Faith doesn’t rest on evidence. It rests on the living memory of a person, a story, and a resurrection that changed the world—even if it left no image behind.