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Florentine Codex: Book 3: Book 3: The Origin of the Gods (Volume 3)
Two of the world’s leading scholars of the Aztec language and culture have translated Sahagún’s monumental and encyclopedic study of native life in Mexico at the time of the Spanish Conquest. This immense undertaking is the first complete translation into any language of Sahagún’s Nahuatl text, and represents one of the most distinguished contributions in the fields of anthropology, ethnography, and linguistics.
Written between 1540 and 1585, the Florentine Codex (so named because the manuscript has been part of the Laurentian Library’s collections since at least 1791) is the most authoritative statement we have of the Aztecs’ lifeways and traditions—a rich and intimate yet panoramic view of a doomed people.
The Florentine Codex is divided by subject area into twelve books and includes over 2,000 illustrations drawn by Nahua artists in the sixteenth century.
Book Three describes in detail the excitingand sometimes bloody—origin stories of Uitzilopochtli, Titlacauan, and Quetzalcoatl. The appendix discusses other significant religious aspects of the Aztec religion, such as how boys are raised to be high priests and what happens to Aztecs after death.
Written between 1540 and 1585, the Florentine Codex (so named because the manuscript has been part of the Laurentian Library’s collections since at least 1791) is the most authoritative statement we have of the Aztecs’ lifeways and traditions—a rich and intimate yet panoramic view of a doomed people.
The Florentine Codex is divided by subject area into twelve books and includes over 2,000 illustrations drawn by Nahua artists in the sixteenth century.
Book Three describes in detail the excitingand sometimes bloody—origin stories of Uitzilopochtli, Titlacauan, and Quetzalcoatl. The appendix discusses other significant religious aspects of the Aztec religion, such as how boys are raised to be high priests and what happens to Aztecs after death.
- GenresHistory
82 pages, Paperback
First published November 4, 1978
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June 14, 2025
“But if cattle or lions had hands,” wrote the Greek philosopher Xenophanes, “they would paint their gods and give them bodies in form like their own — horses like horses, cattle like cattle.” By this, Xenophanes meant that he wasn’t impressed by the grotesqueries of the Greek pantheon, believing that projecting our own ugliness onto the ineffable divine is an act of impiety.
Whether God creates man or vice versa is a can of worms far beyond the scope of this review (as tempting as it is to speculate on the sorts of divinities worms might imagine). For Father Bernardino de Sahagún, transcribing his 16th-century ethnography of the Aztecs in freshly-conquered New Spain, the question wouldn't have been a question. Xenophanes might draw a straight line from the violence of the Aztecs to the violence of their gods, but Father Sahagún would only detect lying devils speaking through lying priests who burdened Indian souls with mortal sins.
To confront this priesthood meant confronting their tales of the gods, both negatively and positively. Negatively, understanding the link between story and ceremony erects an early warning system for old modes of worship slipping into a Christian skin. Positively, the Savior of all Adam's sons has not left himself without a witness. Fragments of the gospel jut from even the most sin-blasted landscape for the observant servant of the Lord.
At least, this is my interpretation of Father Sahagún's third volume, concerned as it is with the origin of the gods. The reason I take this view is threefold. First, in his overall preface to the entire "General History," he expressly identifies syncretism as a severe concern, and elsewhere expounds an extended sermon against idolatry as the worship of devils. This, not anthropology or comparative religion, was his prime directive.
Second, parallels between the stories and the ceremonies are too strong for coincidence. The Aztec ritual calendar was one gigantic "Book of the Gods," each chapter an earthly mirror of heavenly history. The breakup of sacrificial bodies tumbling down a pyramid's steps recreates the triumph of Uitzilopchtli over Coyolxauhqui, her body breaking to pieces in its fall. Ritual drunkenness mirrors Quetzalcoatl getting tricked into downing an intoxicating brew, and so forth.
Father Sahagún also preserves traditions which missionaries may find useful. Uitzilopochtli's miraculous conception might suggest the virgin birth. Priestly abstinence from women, though not as total as Rome's, is another point of contact. The devil might be the god of this world, but even he isn't strong enough to prevent some truth from bleeding through.
The third and final reason for my interpretation is that, as thin as this volume is, its contents are evenly split between tales of the gods and technical sketches of the priesthood's structure and rites. This makes sense since the priests were guardians of the tales of the gods, tales which drove the ceremonies that kept the cosmic lights on. To confront the priests meant confronting their stories, extracting points of common grace where possible, but otherwise knowing the stories as a means of knowing your enemy.
That's my take, anyway. Even if you're not a 16th-century Franciscan friar with Heaven on your mind and Hell at your feet, there's much here of interest. Even apart from the doings of gods who seem equally happy to bless or murder you, I was most fascinated by the Aztec afterlife, consisting as it does of a four-year journey to, as near as I can tell, oblivion — or at least into something so unknowable that it looks like oblivion from Earth. An Aztec with pious survivors could count on his relatives to burn various tools on his behalf after his death, tools he could then use as supports on his journey.
By the way, if the Aztecs turn out to be right, you'd better hope that your loved ones are conscientious after you depart this mortal plane. If they're a bunch of slackers, you'll be out of luck when your voyage takes you through the region of obsidian-bladed winds with no building materials for a shelter. I don't believe the Aztecs were right; but just in case, I'm going to start buttering up my nieces and nephews every chance I get.
Whether God creates man or vice versa is a can of worms far beyond the scope of this review (as tempting as it is to speculate on the sorts of divinities worms might imagine). For Father Bernardino de Sahagún, transcribing his 16th-century ethnography of the Aztecs in freshly-conquered New Spain, the question wouldn't have been a question. Xenophanes might draw a straight line from the violence of the Aztecs to the violence of their gods, but Father Sahagún would only detect lying devils speaking through lying priests who burdened Indian souls with mortal sins.
To confront this priesthood meant confronting their tales of the gods, both negatively and positively. Negatively, understanding the link between story and ceremony erects an early warning system for old modes of worship slipping into a Christian skin. Positively, the Savior of all Adam's sons has not left himself without a witness. Fragments of the gospel jut from even the most sin-blasted landscape for the observant servant of the Lord.
At least, this is my interpretation of Father Sahagún's third volume, concerned as it is with the origin of the gods. The reason I take this view is threefold. First, in his overall preface to the entire "General History," he expressly identifies syncretism as a severe concern, and elsewhere expounds an extended sermon against idolatry as the worship of devils. This, not anthropology or comparative religion, was his prime directive.
Second, parallels between the stories and the ceremonies are too strong for coincidence. The Aztec ritual calendar was one gigantic "Book of the Gods," each chapter an earthly mirror of heavenly history. The breakup of sacrificial bodies tumbling down a pyramid's steps recreates the triumph of Uitzilopchtli over Coyolxauhqui, her body breaking to pieces in its fall. Ritual drunkenness mirrors Quetzalcoatl getting tricked into downing an intoxicating brew, and so forth.
Father Sahagún also preserves traditions which missionaries may find useful. Uitzilopochtli's miraculous conception might suggest the virgin birth. Priestly abstinence from women, though not as total as Rome's, is another point of contact. The devil might be the god of this world, but even he isn't strong enough to prevent some truth from bleeding through.
The third and final reason for my interpretation is that, as thin as this volume is, its contents are evenly split between tales of the gods and technical sketches of the priesthood's structure and rites. This makes sense since the priests were guardians of the tales of the gods, tales which drove the ceremonies that kept the cosmic lights on. To confront the priests meant confronting their stories, extracting points of common grace where possible, but otherwise knowing the stories as a means of knowing your enemy.
That's my take, anyway. Even if you're not a 16th-century Franciscan friar with Heaven on your mind and Hell at your feet, there's much here of interest. Even apart from the doings of gods who seem equally happy to bless or murder you, I was most fascinated by the Aztec afterlife, consisting as it does of a four-year journey to, as near as I can tell, oblivion — or at least into something so unknowable that it looks like oblivion from Earth. An Aztec with pious survivors could count on his relatives to burn various tools on his behalf after his death, tools he could then use as supports on his journey.
By the way, if the Aztecs turn out to be right, you'd better hope that your loved ones are conscientious after you depart this mortal plane. If they're a bunch of slackers, you'll be out of luck when your voyage takes you through the region of obsidian-bladed winds with no building materials for a shelter. I don't believe the Aztecs were right; but just in case, I'm going to start buttering up my nieces and nephews every chance I get.
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