Jesus the Terrorist?

Hiroshima and Empire: A Glimpse of Transfiguration Feast of the Transfiguration

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"The Peaceable Kingdom" by Fritz Eichenberg

August 6th, the Anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima, as well as the Feast of the Transfiguration. It is by Sr Katrina Alton CSJP, Chaplain to Pax Christi England and Wales, our national Catholic peace movement. Sr Katrina is also part of our wider Catholic Worker family.

On August 6, the Catholics celebrate the Feast of the Transfiguration, the moment when Jesus's divine nature shone through his humanity in blinding radiance on Mount Tabor. For a moment, the disciples saw the truth of who Jesus is: “His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white”. Yet this same date, August 6th, is seared into modern memory for another dazzling, blinding light: the atomic bombing of Hiroshima in 1945.

Eighty years ago today, at 8:15 a.m., a man-made sun exploded over the city of Hiroshima. In seconds, tens of thousands were killed. In the days and months that followed, the death toll rose, and the long shadow of nuclear violence fell across the world.

It is no accident that these two events are held in tension on this date. One is the shining revelation of God's love; the other, the devastating consequence of humanity’s pursuit of power and security through nuclear annihilation. One transfiguration glorifies life, the other reveals death dressed in light.

This morning, over twenty members of Pax Christi gathered outside Westminster Cathedral. We came not to protest, but to witness—to share leaflets, prayers, and presence. In the spirit of nonviolence and remembrance, we stood in solidarity with the victims of Hiroshima, daring to hold the light of Christ in the midst of the dark legacy of nuclear war.

Our vigil closed with prayer, and as the words of today's Gospel were read aloud—“This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to Him!”—a homeless man approached the circle. No one knew his name, and at first he said nothing. He simply entered the space and stood in our midst - still and silent, as though the voice from the cloud had hushed his troubled soul. His vestments were colourful, and his liturgical movements subtle and symbolic. 

When the reading ended, the silence broke. With deep anger the man began shouting about the British occupation of Ireland—colonial violence, historic trauma, the Empire's wounds. His pain echoed the prayers that had just been offered. Though seemingly dissonant, his voice belonged in that space. For the trauma of Empire is not buried in the past. It lives on, in bodies, in memories, in broken systems and broken spirits.

Then, without explanation, he laid a white rose in the centre of the circle. A gesture of peace, of memory, a precious offering from the little he had.

Tonight that same rose is being carried to a Hiroshima memorial service, and laid not just as a symbol of peace for the victims of nuclear war, but as a sign of interconnected suffering: of occupied lands, of forgotten people, of all who have stood, and still stand, beneath Empire’s shadow.

What does it mean to celebrate the Transfiguration in a world still scarred by Hiroshima, still shaped by Empire, still deaf to the voices crying out for justice? It means believing that God's nonviolent love still breaks through. Not only on mountaintops, but on city streets. Not only in shining garments, but in tired and traumatised faces. Not only in heavenly visions, but in interruptions—when someone steps unexpectedly into our space and breaks them open with pain we would rather not see. The Transfiguration is not an escape from history, it is a revelation within it.

Jesus did not remain on the mountain. He came down, and walked toward Jerusalem, to the heart of Empire, to the cross. The light of Tabor was not to dazzle, but to guide and give strength for the road ahead. It is the same light that Pax Christi members carried this morning, and the same light glimpsed in the homeless man’s silent presence and heartbreaking cry.

This is the transforming power of the Gospel: suffering can be transfigured, and the things that break us can become the places where grace enters.

That white rose, passed from a man whose name I don't know, to a solemn ceremony in remembrance of a global catastrophe, is no longer just a flower. It is a symbol of resistance, of memory, of hope. It reminds us that Jesus is still being transfigured among us—if we have eyes to see.

Let it remind us that our work is not only to remember the dead, but to listen to the living, especially those whose voices disturb our peace. Let it remind us that even in Hiroshima, even in homelessness, even in Empire’s aftermath, the glory of God can be glimpsed. It may not be dazzling, it may come in silence or in a shout. But it will come, and when it does, may we be ready to say, like Peter: “It is good for us to be here.”

Inventory: Trees of Knowledge

[Anthony V. Capildeo OPL is a Trinidadian Scottish writer of poetry and non-fiction. Recent work includes Polkadot Wounds (Carcanet, 2024), and an essay series on touch and mourning. They are Writer in Residence at the University of York.

This poem was originally published in the Lent/Easter 2025 edition of our newsletter - read the rest here!]

The guava tree was cut down

It was better to install water storage tanks

The orange tree was cut down

It could not be disentangled from a vine

The cherry tree, its neighbour, was cut down

Perhaps a similar vine had spread to it

The plum tree was cut down

Its boughs overhung the drain

The banana trees were cut down

The trash at their roots attracts snakes

The ginger lilies also were cut down

The lushness of their leaves attracting snakes

The sapodilla tree was cut down

Although it was fruitful, even joyful

The white violet was transplanted

Its velvet passed away in sandy soil

The miniature rose was left unwatered

It, and its flame-to-white buds, withered

The pomegranate tree was cut down

Also fiery, and fruitful – Why?

The entanglement of our thought with trees!

Mortal, do you remember you are human?

I do not know why it was cut down

The pomegranate tree that near kissed my window

Anthony V. Capildeo