Mass at the Church of Jesus the Nazarene rarely draws many worshipers, leaving its pews mostly empty. Outside, trash accumulates beneath broken stained-glass windows, and the city’s unhoused population often seeks refuge in its shadows. This seemingly ordinary, rundown church in Mexico City holds a profound secret, revealed by a small sign on its front wall: ‘In this temple rest the remains of the conquistador, Hernán Cortés, who died in 1547.’
Cortés, the figure who toppled the Aztec Empire five centuries ago, forever altering the course of history and European conquest patterns, now lies in a tomb marked by neglect and public indifference. Unlike the grand mausoleums dedicated to other historical figures in Mexico, his resting place seems to reflect a lingering societal discomfort.
Adding to its unusual atmosphere, pro-cannabis activists regularly gather in the plaza directly before the church. The decaying facade of a hospital, also founded by Cortés and connected to the church, further underscores the site’s state of disrepair. Inside, an unsettling, unfinished mural depicting the Apocalypse looms directly above the conquistador’s tomb.
Few passersby pay any attention to Cortés’s final resting spot, and even fewer visit the Roman Catholic church he ordered built in the 1520s. Its emptiness speaks volumes about the enduring disdain many Mexicans feel for Cortés, stemming from historical accounts of atrocities committed during the conquest, including the starvation, massacring, and enslavement of Indigenous peoples.
A service at the mostly empty Church of Jesus the Nazarene, which houses the tomb of Hernán Cortés, in Mexico City in September.
The Rev. Efraín Trejo, stands next to the wall which contains Cortés’s tomb.
The sparsely attended church is a bit rundown.
The Rev. Efraín Trejo, who oversees the church, laments the lack of a more nuanced understanding of Cortés, viewing him as a product of his era. ‘It’s completely unfair when people judge history through a modern lens,’ Father Trejo, 63, reflected as he opened the church doors for a visitor one September morning. ‘What will be said of us in a few centuries?’
The way Cortés’s bones are treated, interred within a simple stone wall, highlights how the debate surrounding the conquistador continues to shape Mexico’s national identity and its often-strained relationship with Spain. President Claudia Sheinbaum, a leftist leader, has consistently called for Spain to apologize for the brutalities of the conquest. This year, she specifically cited Cortés’s 1525 order to kill Cuauhtémoc, the last Aztec emperor.
However, an apology from Spain remains politically unfeasible, as Cortés is frequently viewed more favorably there. When the far-right Spanish party Vox recently urged Mexican authorities to maintain Cortés’s tomb, responses in Mexico ranged from amusement to suggestions that his remains be repatriated to Spain. Ms. Sheinbaum’s stance resonates strongly at home, tapping into a deeply rooted ‘antigachupinismo’ – a sentiment of animosity toward the Spanish, born from the conquest and Mexico’s struggle for independence.
Mass at the church rarely lures many congregants.
‘The prevailing view of Cortés in popular culture is that he was evil, brutal, terrible,’ noted Ilán Semo, a history professor at Iberoamerican University in Mexico City. ‘More people would visit his tomb if that weren’t the case. It’s not even in most tourist guides.’
Inside the church, Cortés’s tomb is remarkably plain, a stark contrast to the ornate burial sites of wealthier, less historically significant congregants interred elsewhere within the church walls. Father Trejo mentioned that while a few visitors, including some from Spain, occasionally stop by, he also recounted an incident where a man entered the church, shouting profanities at Cortés’s remains.
Other deterrents for visitors, Father Trejo added, include a makeshift tent housing pro-cannabis activists from a group called La Comuna 420. They’ve established a ‘tolerance zone’ directly outside the church, where they openly smoke marijuana without police intervention.
‘The aroma is hard to ignore,’ the priest conceded. Just beyond the haze of smoke, street vendors sell clothing and food from stalls that obscure an outdoor mural on the church’s exterior. This mural depicts Cortés’s famous meeting with Montezuma (also known as Moctezuma), the penultimate Aztec emperor, at Huitzilan, a site whose Nahuatl name translates to ‘place of the hummingbirds.’
Pro-cannabis activists congregate daily in the plaza directly in front of the church, which is in Mexico City’s old center.
A bust of Hernán Cortés in the Hospital de Jesús, which he founded for Spanish soldiers.
Ulises Salomón, 25, an Indigenous street vendor from a Triqui-speaking village in southern Mexico, whose booth stands before the mural, stated he has never entered the church. ‘Cortés,’ Mr. Salomón declared, ‘is an insult to Native peoples.’
The conquistador’s bones have had an extraordinary journey to this unusual tomb. He passed away in Spain in 1547 and was initially buried there. However, his family later exhumed his remains and brought them to Mexico, where they were interred in several locations, including a convent and another church, before finally finding their resting place in the Church of Jesus the Nazarene. This church was originally built as part of a hospital Cortés founded for Spanish soldiers.
Historians recount that in the 19th century, following Mexico’s independence from Spain, Cortés’s remains became a source of controversy. Fears of desecration led to a clandestine plan to hide them beneath the church’s floorboards, with a fabricated story circulating that they had been moved to Italy. The remains remained largely forgotten until 1946 when researchers, guided by rediscovered documents, located them. After exhumation and confirmation, they were reinterred in the church wall the following year.
Much like the journey of his remains, perceptions of Cortés have continuously evolved. Some modern interpretations acknowledge the significant role of Indigenous allies who supported Cortés, portraying him less as a singular conqueror and more as a political opportunist who exploited existing divisions in pre-Columbian Mexico. Yet, in Mexico, a prevailing view continues to hold Cortés accountable for the devastation of Indigenous societies, a perspective rooted in the accounts of his contemporaries who criticized his actions during his lifetime.
Ulises Salomón, a merchant outside the church. “Cortés,” Mr. Salomón said, “is an insult to Native peoples.”
Still, no such strong judgments are explicitly displayed at Cortés’s tomb, where a simple sign advises visitors against getting too close to the stone wall housing his remains. Above the tomb, a disquieting ceiling mural by José Clemente Orozco, a renowned 20th-century Mexican artist, portrays scenes from the Apocalypse, with severed heads and tormented bodies, seemingly unrelated to Cortés himself.
Adjacent to the church, the Hospital de Jesús, founded by Cortés, incredibly continues to operate after 500 years. Its serene patios offer patients a peaceful environment where hummingbirds flit among hibiscus flowers. In stark contrast to his neglected tomb, the hospital displays numerous tributes to Cortés, including a bronze bust, large paintings of him and his son, and a statue depicting him holding a miniature model of the adjacent church.
The hospital now functions as a nonprofit. Its administrators acknowledge that its historical ties to Cortés make fundraising difficult, particularly since the current leftist governing party, Morena, gained power partly by demanding an apology from Spain.
‘People have the idea that if they help the hospital, they are helping Hernán Cortés,’ explained Adrián Rivera, the hospital’s accountant. ‘That harms us instead of benefiting us in this day and age.’
Father Trejo says he wished people treated Cortés’s legacy with more nuance. “It’s completely unfair when people judge history through a modern lens,” he said.
Miriam Castillo and Galia García Palafox contributed reporting.