Sandro Francisco Piedrahita

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself

(I am large, I contain multitudes…)

Song of Myself, Walt Whitman

I wake up at five to say my prayers.  The chapel at the monastery is still empty and I can pray in peace, so I take my breviary and begin the daily routine.  I pray in a mechanical fashion, almost half asleep, paying little heed to the words I am saying, simply repeating the prayers that I have mouthed every morning – without interruption – for the last thirty years.  And yet sometimes I wonder, in the moments of darkest doubt, what is the point of all this praying? 

My faith has waned so much over time, something I have not even admitted to my Confessor, which may itself be a sin.  Sometimes I doubt everything – God’s creation of the universe, Christ’s Passion and Resurrection, even the Miracle of Guadalupe which I myself witnessed, which happened in front of my eyes.  Didn’t I see the apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the tilma[1] of the Indian Juan Diego?  It seems impossible that after being privy to such a wonder I would not be completely free from doubt, that my faith in the Church would be so weak.  And yet my suspicions do not abate.  I continue to be racked by the worst kind of uncertainty. 

Doesn’t the Franciscan Bernardino de Sahagun himself question whether the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the tilma is not somehow the work of human hands, in other words a fraud?  And if even the Miracle is a fraud, doesn’t that cast doubt on every other doctrine, without exception, taught to us by the Church?  Doesn’t that mean that everything must be questioned?

So after finishing my prayers, I prepare to visit the Indian Juan Diego.  Today of all days, I need to speak with him in person, the little olive-skinned man always dressed in white pants and a white shirt, with a red sash around his waist and threadbare sandals on his feet.  In the afternoon, I shall have to go to the Hall of the Indian Inquisition, to hear a witness in the matter of Ometochtzin, an Indian cacique[2], an Aztec of noble lineage, who has been accused of blasphemy, heresy and idolatry by his political enemies.  I need to determine what his punishment will be.  And I want to speak to Juan Diego before I do so.

In retrospect, I should never have accepted the charge of Grand Inquisitor – it is a charge so inimical to my nature.  Who am I to decide the fate of sinners, after all, to have the right to punish them, even to send them to their deaths, me, a man so imperfect in the eyes of God…  It was better when I was only tasked with being the Protector of the Indians, when my job was to block the worst abuses perpetrated by the Spanish encomenderos[3] against the native people, when I fulfilled a noble mission, actually helping the Indians and making their conquest by the white man somehow less brutal, in some way more humane. 

Today, however, I am forced to remember that part of my job as Grand Inquisitor includes the obligation to order men to be burnt at the stake if I – in my infinite wisdom – feel they have committed grave sins against the Catholic Faith.  My predecessor, Father Santa Maria, ordered two crypto-Jews, Hernando Alonzo and Gonzalo de Morales, to be immolated, for the simple reason that they secretly continued with their ancestral faith despite having been baptized in the Church.  And now I, Grand Inquisitor Juan de Zumarraga of the Indian Inquisition, must deal with an Aztec Indian who is accused of exactly the same crime.

I take a horse from the stable and begin my way to Juan Diego’s hut next to the chapel which I myself ordered to be built in honor of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the Mount of Tepeyac, the place where the Virgin had reportedly appeared to Juan Diego and requested a teocalli.[4]  The man is already in his sixties, a simple Indian who doesn’t know how to read and write, and yet he is the person I need to see today.  After all – if the story is true – he is the one who witnessed the apparition of Mary, Mother of God, when he was walking in this area, indeed, she appeared to him three times.   So who could be a better person to help me with my doubts, who better than a man who apparently was chosen by the Virgin Mary herself for his simplicity and holiness, so different from my bedeviled intellectual complexity?

In my mind, I practice what I shall ask him, since I don’t mean to scandalize a pious Catholic with my torturous uncertainty.   Worse yet, I do not want to make him question his own faith, although I realize that would be difficult.  Juan Diego is a devout Christian.  He has the faith of a child.  He has dedicated his life entirely to taking care of the Virgin of Guadalupe’s chapel from the day it was built.

“Bishop Zumarraga!” he exclaims, as soon as he opens the door.   “I apologize that my simple home is so unkempt, so messy,” he says. “I was not expecting you or any other visitors this morning.   Would you like to have some pozole?  I have just prepared it this morning.”

“That’s all right, Juan Dieguito,” I respond.  “I came here because I wanted to clear something up.  I want you to help me with something.”

“Yes, your Excellency, what can that be?  I am but a simple Indian, and you are such an important man, not only bishop of Mexico City, but also an author of so many books about the holy Catholic faith.  How could a humble man like me possibly be of help to you, your Excellency?  Please let me know what I can do.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, but there are some, including Fray Bernardino, who are saying the depiction of the Virgin Mary on your tilma was painted by human hands.  I want you to swear to me, in the name of the Lord, under penalty of hell, that Mary’s image appeared on your tilma miraculously, that it is not a painting.”

“How could anyone ever doubt it?” Juan Diego responds incredulously.  “Those are habladurias[5], told by sinful people, with all due respect to Fray Bernardino.  How could anyone doubt mi niñita[6] appeared to me, that she placed her image on my tilma?  Those are words meant to confuse the people, your Excellency, especially the humble people, the Indians like me.  The Virgin Mary appeared to me several times during the month of December in 1531.  I know it with the same certainty as the fact that I am named Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin.”

“And then there is another matter,” I say.  “Fray Bernardino says that the Indians who purport to worship the Virgin of Guadalupe are secretly worshipping Tonantzin, an ancient Aztec goddess.  He says the Indians even call Guadalupe by the name ‘Tonantzin.’”

“That word means ‘Holy mother.’   Most of the Indians mean nothing by it.  I can assure you that most of the Christian Indians are honest in their faith, that their devotion to the Virgin of Guadalupe is no lie.  There are some who still have some faith in the gods of their ancestors, but they mean no harm.  After all, after the arrival of the white man, everything has changed so fast.  You’ll see, your Excellency, as more and more people learn about the apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the more people will be converted.  It is not for nothing that she appeared as an Indian woman, speaking the natives’ language.”

“Well, this afternoon I’ll have to listen to testimony about one of your leaders, Ometochtzin, lord of Texcoco, who is accused by credible witnesses of having secretly continued worshipping Quetzalcoatl, Huitzilopochtli and other Aztec demons despite having been baptized.”

“Those aren’t demons,” Juan Diego meekly objects.  “Those are the gods our grandfathers believed in.  I’ve heard of Ometochtzin and I pray for his conversion to the Christian faith.  But I think you should be kind to him, instead of judging him.  The message of the Virgin of Guadalupe is to convert the Indian peoples through love, not through horrible punishments.”

“I’ve heard Ometochtzin says the Inquisition is evil, that it is no better than the Aztec sacrifices, that the judaizantes[7] were incinerated for no good reason, just because they wouldn’t pray to the crucified God.  Do you agree with him, Juan Diego?”

“The Church teaches us not to question God’s designs,” the tiny Indian responds, repeating what he has learned in Catechism.  “If the Church has instituted the Inquisition, my lordship, then who am I to question it?  And if Ometochtzin must be punished, that is for you to decide.  But I think you get more with gentleness than rigor.  Don’t terrorize the Indians.  They are like babes in questions of faith.  Just give them a little time.” 

“You believe everything you’ve been taught by the priests, don’t you, Juan Dieguito?”

“Why should I not, your lordship?  What intelligence do I have to question matters of God?  I’m but a simple Indian, not even of the nobility like Ometochtzin.  Thinking about lofty matters would only serve to confuse me.  No, I think it is best for me to just believe what I am told by our kindly Catholic priests.  I am not learned in books, and too much thinking fatigues me.”

“Don’t you ever ask yourself how God could have allowed the barbarity of the Aztec human sacrifices to go on, if He is infinitely good?” 

I instantly regret having posed such a question to the innocent Indian.

“No, I don’t, your Excellency,” he responds without hesitation.  “What is the word used by Father Robles the Franciscan?  The will of God is ‘inscrutable,’ he says.  It cannot be understood by human minds.  Despite God’s goodness, there’s evil in the world.  I simply choose to accept His holy will and ask no questions.”

I leave the home of Juan Dieguito, rather chastened.  Here I am, a man who has written treatises on Catholic doctrine and a simple uneducated Indian has to teach me lessons about the Catholic Faith.  Of course Guadalupe’s appearance on the man’s tilma was miraculous!  How could I ever doubt it?  And yet – and yet – I am not fully satisfied, I cannot pinpoint why. 

After all, if Juan Diego had perpetrated a fraud, if the image on the tilma had been a painting, he would not confess it to the Grand Inquisitor.  Nobody would be that foolhardy.  And I had the sense that Juan Diego was so obsequious, so ingratiating, that he was trying to give me all the right answers.  Does he really not hate the Inquisition, which has tried so many of his brothers, which has killed so many Jews?  Perhaps it is better for the moment to stop thinking about such questions and attend to the matters at hand.  I arrive back at the monastery, where I have only an hour to prepare, an hour to read the dossiers prepared for me by the fiscales[8] in connection with the accusations against the Aztec lord Ometochtzin. 

At one o’clock exactly, I appear in the Hall of the Indian Inquisition, to hear testimony regarding the accusations of blasphemy made against the great cacique of Texcoco, a man used to living in a palace, scion of a fabled Aztec family, grandson of emperor Nezahualcoyotl and son of emperor Nezahualpilli.  The accusations against Ometochzin were initially leveled by men outside Texcoco, economic competitors from Chiconautla, who clearly had an axe to grind and whose allegations were suspect.  So I go to the audiencia[9] hoping this matter will not be too complicated and that I shall be able to resolve it in a Christian manner, consistent with the message of the Virgin of Guadalupe that the Indians should be treated with love.

The witness appearing today is Ometochtzin’s nephew Francisco, a wiry somewhat hunchbacked man with nervous flittering eyes and a scraggly beard.  Francisco begins his testimony by stating that Ometochtzin had convened a group of noblemen at his estate at Ocotepec after some of them had participated in Christian rogativas[10] asking Jesus Christ to save the people of Texcoco from a terrible drought.  According to Francisco, Ometochtzin had chastised his Indian visitors for not having prayed to Tlaloc, Aztec god of rain, instead.  Francisco quoted the words of Ometochtzin directly.

“Do you want to believe what the priests are saying and preaching, that they are things of God?  Well, I tell you what the priests say is nothing, all their stories about their white God amount to nothing.  Since my father and grandfather were great prophets and they said nothing about the coming of a white God, you should not believe it.  And if anything were true of the Christian doctrine, my ancestors would have spoken about it.  But since they didn’t, it is obvious that the Christian doctrine is false.  We must continue to follow the faith of our forefathers, which is the only righteous path.” 

And then Francisco concludes, as if trying to excuse himself for having participated in such a meeting, that what his uncle Ometochtzin had said was “undeniably against the one true God and our holy Catholic faith.” 

I don’t believe that Francisco’s testimony is enough to prove any charges against Ometochtzin, let alone the weighty charges of heresy and idolatry, but I nonetheless order the cacique’s arrest while the investigations continue.  I also order a sweep of Ometochtzin’s estate at Ocotepec, since at some point Francisco also swore that his uncle prayed to the Aztec devils Quetzalcoatl, Tezcatlipoca, Tlaloc and Huitzilopochtli, and that there were statues of those terrible demons located in the Aztec cacique’s estate.

What my investigators find in Ometochtzin’s properties is astounding, and should have been an early sign that he was no ordinary defendant.  At first I had thought that the appropriate punishment for him would be a public flogging and perhaps the confiscation of his vast properties.  After all, I had meted out a relatively soft punishment to don Diego of Tlapanaloa, an Indian accused of far worse crimes, including human sacrifice and sodomy, but don Diego had wholly recanted every heretical statement he had made and had re-affirmed his faith in Our Lord Jesus Christ.  But I have the sense that Ometochtzin is brazen in a way don Diego never was.

Not only did my men find more than fifty statues of the demons on his property, all in public view, but even after learning that he was a subject of an investigation Ometochtzin had done nothing to destroy or remove them.   Worse yet, he had statues dedicated to the worst of the Aztec demons: Huitzilopochtli, in whose honor the Aztecs sacrificed humans and even children by cutting out their hearts with obsidian knives, and Tezcatlipoca, an alter ego of the devil.  My men even reported that there was a pyramid on his Ocotepec property, which my investigators believed was a temple to Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent.  So I decide that I must inspect the cacique’s property myself and destroy the images of the Aztec demons. 

Ometochtzin’s estate at Ocotepec can only be described as palatial: more than fifty rooms, many with marble floors; thick walls built of tezontle, a strong volcanic stone; columns made of red painted stucco to support the second floor; gold everywhere, on the water fountains, on the doorknobs, on the banister leading to the palace’s second story and on multiple gold panels; a huge shrine apparently dedicated to the demon Huitzilopotchli in the center of the palace; outside a large pool full of multi-colored fish and assorted water fowl; also, an Aztec ball court, a tlachco, used to play tlachtli, an Aztec ball game; a small zoo, housing jaguars, panthers, monkeys, guacamayas and even mountain lions; a large orchard full of fruit trees and sweet-smelling flowers around a large central courtyard; and everywhere images of the Aztec demons, with their myriad names, which I proceed to destroy with my sledgehammer. 

The demons are everywhere, in bas-relief on the walls, in statues of various sizes and in murals painted in bright colors.  I see a statue of Huitzilopochtli, a black face with yellow and blue stripes, holding a scepter shaped like a snake, and pulverize it with my hammer.  Then my eyes alight on a bas-relief of Xipe Toltec, represented with flayed human skin on his face and the flayed skin of the hands falling loose from the wrists, and I smash it into powder.  Every one of the icons, every one of the murals, and every one of the statutes of the demons must be erased from memory.  That is the only way we can ensure that the Indians will never pray to them again.  I see a mural depicting Tezcatlipoca, a stripe of black paint across his face and an obsidian mirror in place of one of his feet, and I hit it so hard that the entire wall collapses.  There is a statue of the devil of rain, commonly called Tlaloc, with goggle eyes and fangs, and I crush it into oblivion.   I smash one icon after another, I do it furiously, as do my men, to such a point that we leave much of the palace in a pile of rubble.  We even destroy much of the pyramid to Quetzalcoatl located in the backyard next to the pool.  Everyone of the stone images of the feathered serpent is completely disfigured by our hammers.  At the end, I am exhausted but satisfied.  Despite my doubts – or precisely because of them – I want to crush the faith these Indians have in these devils, to pulverize their beliefs just like I pulverized their images with my mighty sledgehammer.    

The testimony of the next witness, the Indian Don Pedro, one of Ometochtzin’s servants, tends to be exculpatory.  He is a frail octogenarian, dressed in Aztec garb, a loincloth and a long cape, not the clothes of the Spaniard.  He has some difficulty breathing as he speaks, probably suffering from some ailment of the lungs.  If only Ometochtzin were to repeat Don Pedro’s testimony, and recant or deny Francisco’s accusation regarding his public exhortations against the Catholic Faith, I think I could give him a lighter sentence – and that is what I want to do, that is what I have done with every Indian who has ever come before me.  I have never meted out the most extreme punishment when it comes to the Indians, nor against anyone else, to tell the truth, not even against the Jewish conversos[11] who lapsed in their Christian Faith.  After all, the Indians of Mexico who come before the Indian Inquisition are innocently following their ancestral religion, not being defiant in a purposeful way. 

Don Pedro states in nahuatl – we have an interpreter – that the statues had been on the Ocotepec estate for more than fifty years, when Ometochtzin’s grandfather and father still lived on the property, and that Ometochtzin had given them little heed and had never prayed to them or venerated them in any way.  In addition, he says that Ometochtzin was a proud baptized Christian, that he kept the Commandments and regularly went to Mass.  He also says Ometochtzin does not have any concubines and is faithful in his marriage vows – a piece of testimony which I tend to disbelieve – but the penalties for adultery are not all that severe. 

I’m thinking that an acquittal is possible.  All Ometochtzin needs to do is to repeat what Don Pedro has said and to completely abjure the statements against the Catholic faith attributed to him by his nephew.  Finally, the cacique is called to testify.  Ometochtzin is not dressed like an Indian, he comes to us in the dress of a landed hidalgo[12], which is in fact what he is.  He is dressed in a white linen shirt with a ruff and matching wrist ruffs, over which he has a black doublet with long sleeves and a leather jerkin worn over the doublet.  He is stout, in his mid-fifties, and his demeanor is that of a man accustomed to lead.  When he is asked how he pleads, innocent or guilty, he surprises everyone in the Hall of the Inquisition, including – I assume – his attorney, Vicente Riverol, a Spaniard who only works for the richest clients. 

“I don’t think that this so-called holy tribunal has jurisdiction over my person,” he states in perfect Spanish.  “I am the legitimate ruler of Texcoco, part of the Triple Aztec Alliance, along with Tenochtitlan and Tacuba.  If I am to be judged, it can only be under the laws of our forebears.  This whole proceeding is a sham.”

His attorney stands up to protest, perhaps to encourage his client to change his statement, but I tell Riverol to sit down.     

“Do you dispute or admit the allegations made against you by your nephew, Francisco Maldonado?” I ask.  “Did you state in public that the Catholic faith is nothing and that the Indians of Texcoco should continue to revere their Aztec demons instead?”

“The Catholic faith is a farce,” he responds in a loud mocking voice which fills the hall.  You can see the sense of shock on the faces of everyone attending, especially those of the many Indians who have come to witness the proceedings. 

“How can one believe in a God who is tortured,” he continues, “a God who is crucified like a man?  And our Aztec gods aren’t demons.  They are the gods of our forefathers, which have been revered for centuries.  They are very powerful spirits, and long after the Spaniards are ousted from these lands, our gods shall continue to watch over the native peoples of Mexico.  None of them can experience torture, for if they experienced such a punishment they would no longer be gods.”

“So you do not dispute the charge of heresy?” 

“Heresy?  What does that mean?  That I refuse to believe what you want me to believe?  Well, let me tell you, you can take my properties, you can enslave my brothers, you can destroy all our idols, all our temples, but you cannot get inside my mind.  That is the one thing you cannot control, what I believe and don’t believe.  So if that is heresy, I am guilty as charged.”

“And you don’t deny that you have paid homage to Aztec demons, that you had multiple icons of Aztec devils in your estates?”

“I do not dispute that I continue to revere the gods of my father and my grandfather and of all the emperors who came before them.”

“Now, listen,” I warn him.  “I might be inclined to grant some leniency if it was all, as you say, inside your head.  That is clearly heresy, and worthy of a significant punishment, but the worst thing you’ve done is lead others astray, making them doubt the Mercy of God.  That is unpardonable.  Doubt is the worst thing that can befall a soul, other than sin itself, since doubt can lead to a whole host of transgressions and even to despair, which is the ultimate rejection of God.”  

I feel myself beginning to sweat, and wipe my forehead with a handkerchief before I continue.  

“Do you promise, at least,” I ask the cacique, “that you will never again lead your Indian brothers and sisters to doubt, that you will keep your thoughts to yourself?”  

I am trying to give him a lifeline – a way to avoid the most terrible punishment – but I am not sure if the stupid, stubborn Indian will have the good sense to use it.

“Your Excellency might not realize it,” responds Ometochtzin in his haughty voice, “but there are thousands, nay millions, of Indians who continue to pray to our Aztec gods, even after having been baptized.  Even their devotion to your Virgin of Guadalupe is secretly a veneration of Tonantzin the Aztec goddess.  I cannot forswear the religion of my ancestors, nor can I agree never to discuss such matters with my subjects.  And if you touch a hair on my head – I promise you, Zumarraga – I shall return and we shall be millions.”      

“I hold the official title of Protector of the Indians, you insolent native.  I must protect them from the fungus of doubt which you seem so willing to propagate.  And so I shall take the matter under advisement and let you know my sentence in a week.  I do not need to hear any further testimony.  Pray to the Lord so that he may lead me to a decision consistent with His Mercy and His endless willingness to forgive.”

“The Spaniards – the supposed people of God – have never shown any mercy to the Indians,” Ometotchzin retorts, brazen as ever.  “Why should I expect it from you?” 

The attorney Riverol frantically signals to his client, telling him to shut up, but everything has already been said.

            What a devilish conundrum.  Here I am, a man burdened by ceaseless doubt, having to render judgment on a man accused of fomenting doubt among his people.  I have never ordered a man to be burnt at the stake, not even among the judaizantes.  But Ometochtzin appears to be recalcitrant in a way no other defendant has been.  He appears to be inviting the worst sort of punishment.  And yet, who I am to punish him?  Would I not be guilty of the same heresy if the Holy Inquisition could get inside of my mind, to use the words of Ometochtzin?  What black despair wouldn’t they find within me? 

Still, I have an obligation to fulfill, to mete out punishment in a manner that would cause the least harm to souls.  And if Ometochtzin is allowed to continue with his proselytizing, who knows how many souls would be separated from God, how many would be taken by the devil of doubt?  Is it better to save one man’s life or to save thousands from perdition? 

This is not an easy decision, especially as I am not sure I disagree with everything Ometochtzin has said.  In a perverse way, I admire the proud cacique.  He is unquestionably brave, much braver than me, a man who will not even admit his doubts to his Confessor.  Ometochtzin could have saved everything – his properties, his freedom, his life – by merely recanting his statements against the Catholic faith, but he preferred to speak his truth, to repeat the truth of his ancestors.

I go to the chapel early in the morning, in order to seek some guidance, but it is useless.  I simply no longer believe – I do not believe that the Christian God is necessarily any truer than the Aztec deities or those of the Greeks or those of the Basque people.  How could a flawed human mind such as mine truly grapple with such issues?  How could I, lacking certainty, demand certainty from Indians who had only recently been converted?  Should a man be sent to the stake merely for following the faith that his people have followed for centuries?  All I have are questions, and very few answers.  Oh Lord, how far I have fallen!

“Please, my Lord Jesus Christ,” I plead, “if I am to spare this man, give me a sign!  Let me know if my decision should be tempered by mercy.”

The last time I had demanded a sign, it was after Juan Diego advised me that he had witnessed an apparition of the Virgin Mary.  As usual, my first inclination was to doubt.  I told him to come back with some heavenly proof.  And of course he had done just that.  He came with a tilma full of Castilian roses which did not grow in Mexico and – even more miraculously – when he opened his cloak, the image of the Virgin Mary appeared on its surface.    Why can’t the Lord give me such a sign now?  The hours pass, and then the days.  I look up at the Heavens, hoping to see something remarkable.  I go to the chapel of the monastery, wishing to hear some heavenly voice, like Saint Paul on the way to Damascus, but there is only silence, always silence.  And no sign across the Heavens. 

            The day comes when I must render my verdict – and still no sign.  I make a desperate decision, to go to the chapel built for Our Lady of Guadalupe where Juan Diego is the custodian.  Perhaps there I shall receive the sign.  I choose the fastest horse in the stable and fly to Juan Diego’s home, where I demand that he let me into the chapel.

Juan Dieguito listens gravely to my plea.  

“This afternoon I must decide the fate of Ometochtzin,” I say in a tremulous voice, “and I have asked the Lord to give me a sign if I should spare the cacique.  It’s been almost a week, Juan Dieguito, and the Lord has not responded.”

“Look for the sign within yourself,” he replies, searching my eyes with pity.  “Listen to your heart, your Excellency, and the Lord will tell you what to do.”

“Open the doors to the chapel, you stupid Indian,” I exclaim.  “If I am to spare Ometochtzin, it must be after I receive a sign from God.”

Juan Diego lets me into the chapel and I kneel before a small statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.  

“I need a sign, my Jesus,” I cry out loudly as I begin to weep.  “I don’t want to send a man to his death, unless it is your will.  Please, my Lord, please!  I beg you.” 

But the Lord is silent.

Juan Diego puts his hand on my shoulder.  “Look at the image of Maria of Guadalupe, your Excellency.  She came and professed that all the Indians should be converted by love.  That should be your sign.”

“I need a sign from Jesus!” I exclaim.  "It would be so easy for Him to grant me some guidance.  But He will not!”

Suddenly I swipe the statue of the Sacred Heart with my hands and hurl it onto the floor, destroying it like I destroyed the Aztec icons at Ometochtzin’s Ocotepec estate.  The head of the bearded Jesus is severed from His body.  I start to cry unconsolably and Juan Diego says to me in a soft voice, “Oh Lordship, what have you done…Listen to your heart.”

“I doubt, Juan Dieguito, I doubt!”

I place my open palms on either side of my face and continue sobbing.

“What do you doubt, my Lordship?” the Indian asks.

“Everything.  The very existence of God, His Passion and Resurrection.  Perhaps I do not receive a message from God because I am unworthy.  ‘I am not worthy, I am not worthy, I pray every day, but please give me the sign…’  Or perhaps I do not receive a sign because He simply does not exist.”

“Oh, your Excellency, how can that be?  You’ve been such a good shepherd to your people.  You fiercely protested when the encomenderos were abusing the Indians and I know that you did it risking your position as bishop.  You fought tooth and nail for the protection of our native peoples.  No one has done more for them.  Don’t let one terrible choice separate you from Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

“I can’t help it, Juan Dieguito.  Everything I’ve seen and heard has made me question God’s existence.  The Aztec sacrifices of children, having their hearts torn out.  The rape of Indian women by their Spanish overlords.  The actions of the Indian Inquisiton itself, the killing of the Jewish conversos...”

“Pray then, your Lordship.  Pray for faith to our Lord Jesus Christ and to the Virgin of Guadalupe.  After all, when she said, ‘Am I not here who am your mother?’ she was not addressing just me.  She was speaking to all of her people.  That includes you, your Excellency.  Place your faith in la Guadalupana.”

I do not respond to Juan Diego.  I clutch the head of Jesus on the floor and hold it close to my chest as I run out of the chapel, hoping against hope that I will yet see a sign.

            By noon, I have reached a decision and I travel to the Hall of the Indian Inquisition.  Since the Lord has not given me a sign, I have concluded that it is better to kill one man than to allow thousands of others to doubt.  By one o’clock in the afternoon, I announce that Ometochtzin, lord of Texcoco, must be burnt at the stake.  The once proud cacique looks at me with a defeated face and collapses onto his chair as his attorney puts his arms around him.  Perhaps until this moment he had not realized what the Grand Inquisitor Juan de Zumarraga was capable of doing.   

The next morning I witness the ceremony attending to Ometochtzin’s execution.  He is forced to walk to the central plaza wearing a sanbenito, a penitential garment, and a coroza, a long conical cap, while holding a lit candle.  Before he arrives at the place where he shall be executed, Ometochtzin turns to the masses and speaks, perhaps appealing to my mercy even at this late moment. 

“Let this be an example to all my Indian brothers and sisters,” he says, “that they should not render homage to the devils worshipped by our ancestors, and instead they should follow Our True Lord Jesus Christ and the religion taught to us by His priests.  If I had not denied the divinity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, I would not be facing such a well-deserved death.  Please don’t make the same mistake as your humble cacique.”

            I am not called to mercy.  I let the execution proceed.

            I watch as the flames consume Ometochtzin while the crowds view everything in rapt silence.  There is fear in the eyes of all the Indians.  What have I done? I ask myself as I see the spiraling fire.  What horror have I wrought?   Do I want to scandalize all my native wards? 

I stand up and cry out, “Stop!  Don’t burn the cacique!” but the executioners are too far to hear me and Ometochtzin is probably already dead.  Why didn’t I listen to Juan Dieguito’s counsel this morning?  Shouldn’t I have heard his simple wisdom?  Didn’t he remind me of the Virgin of Guadalupe’s message of love? 

My anguish knows no end.  Ometochtzin the great Indian lord has been reduced to ashes.  My sin is a hundred times worse than that of the destroyed cacique. Mine is an unpardonable transgression, unquestionably the gravest of faults.  And I shall spend the rest of my life trying to restore my soul, to get back in God’s good graces.  I shall never order another man to be burnt at the stake – not a Jew, not a heretic, not an Aztec.  I shall never do so again.  I hope that God in His infinite mercy can still forgive me for this monstrous and barbaric act, the product of all my stubborn doubts.

[1] A tilma is a cloak worn by the Indians of Mexico. 

[2] A “cacique” is an Aztec overlord.

[3] An “encomendero” was the owner of a grant given by the crown of a specified number of Amerindians to work for him.

[4] “Teocalli” is nahuatl for temple.

[5] “Habladurias” are scandalous gossip.

[6] “Mi niñita” means my little girl; that is how Juan Diego referred to Maria of Guadalupe.

[7] Judaizantes was a word used for Jews who secretly continued practicing their Jewish faith.

[8] “Fiscales” are prosecutors.

[9] An “audiencia” is a hearing before the Indian Inquisition.

[10] “Rogativas” were mass Catholic processions intended to seek God’s help with a terrible drought.

[11] A “converso” is a Jew who has abandoned his Jewish faith and converted to Catholicism.

[12] An “hidalgo” is a landowner.