Rev. Dr. John Lentz & Prof. Amos Guiora: Holocaust Lessons, Christian Complicity, and Bystanders

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2026/02/01

Rev. Dr. John C. Lentz Jr. is a Presbyterian pastor and social-justice advocate based in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. Born in Northern Virginia and from Washington, D.C., he earned degrees at Kenyon College and Yale Divinity School, and completed a PhD at the University of Edinburgh. He served as pastor of Forest Hill Presbyterian Church from 1994 to 2024, retiring after 30 years. His public work has included immigration “sanctuary” advocacy and community leadership, and he has spoken on race, education, and local civic life, including founding a civility initiative. Married and father of three, he publishes a Substack “Living the Questions” and has just published What’s Faith Got to Do With It? Learning to Love and Live the Questions. WIPF&STOCK, Eugene 2025.

Prof. Amos N. Guiora is an Israeli-American professor of law at the University of Utah’s S.J. Quinney College of Law and directs the school’s Bystander Initiative. He holds an A.B. in history from Kenyon College, a J.D. from Case Western Reserve University School of Law, and a PhD from Leiden University. Guiora served 19 years in the Israel Defence Forces, retiring as a lieutenant colonel, and helped implement the Oslo Peace Process (1994–1999). His work examines national security, institutional complicity, and enabling cultures behind sexual abuse; he has authored The Crime of Complicity, Armies of Enablers, and Legitimate Target. 

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: About the honour and the privilege of being with the highly distinguished Reverend Dr. John Lentz and Professor Amos Guiora, what do you consider the key lessons of the Holocaust from two points of contact? One, those who are descendants of Jewish people who have suffered it, and two, those who were not Jewish but are descendants of those who witnessed it.

Rev. Dr. John C. Lentz Jr.: Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that my father served in the United States Army for four years, for as long as the United States was in the war. Something that has always moved me is that, by heritage, I’m German and Bavarian. All my people—the Ewigs, the Lentzes, the Rohe’s, and all of these folks—are of German descent.

I remember writing this in the Festschrift for Amos’s father: that just by a matter of 50 years and immigration status, my dad would probably be fighting in the Wehrmacht, because that’s what would have happened. That is always something that sobers me and grounds my thinking.

The other thing, coming from a theological, religious, and Christian perspective, is how complicit much of the church was, both the German Christian church, which sold its soul to the Nazi powers. As I understand it, Hitler even appointed a Reich bishop to make sure the German church was in line. And what the Roman Catholic Church did in terms of its complicity with fascism is beyond description.

So I carry that as part of my Christian heritage, and I never want to forget that. Yes, there was Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I do not want to ignore him. And yes, Karl Barth and other theologians wrote the Barmen Declaration. These theologians were clear that Hitler was not God, not the Messiah, not the Saviour. They were true to their theological convictions, though none led the parade.

None of them were on the front lines of protest. They did not join the underground. But it is what it is. I’ll stop there and let Amos go on, and if something else comes up, I’ll return to it.

Prof. Amos N. Guiora: So, Scott, for me, there are no secrets. As a second generation, as I look at a picture of my father on my desk—and behind me is the book that Lentz helped write about my dad—for me, all roads run through the Holocaust. There’s no doubt about that.

When I started writing The Crime of Complicity, when Lentz and I were sitting with a cigar on his deck in Cleveland Heights, one of the questions we discussed, which I did not address in the book, was the role of Christian pastors in the run-up to the Holocaust. We talked about Bonhoeffer.

As a second-generation, only child, I am focused and dedicated to ensuring that my parents’ story—hers and his—gets told and retold. As an example, next month and in March, I’m speaking to junior high school students in Salt Lake City about the Holocaust, and I take every opportunity I have to talk about it.

So, in terms of your question, for me, it’s an absolute sense of responsibility to my parents.

So, for me, as a second-generation, and particularly because I am an only child, I am focused and dedicated to ensuring that my parents’ story—hers and his—gets told and retold. As an example, next month and in March, I’m speaking to junior high school students in Salt Lake City about the Holocaust, and I take every opportunity I have to talk about it.

So, in terms of your question, for me, it’s an absolute sense of responsibility to my parents.

I’ve been asked, Scott, who I would talk to. I speak to many people every day. As Lentz knows, I talk to many people. I will not, however, speak to Holocaust deniers, because there is no basis there.

There is an absolute sense of obligation—duty may be the right word. And the older I get—I’m a month or two older than Lentz; I’m sixty-eight and a half—the recognition of what they went through and my obligation to continue telling that story, in whatever ways I can, deepens.

And Lentz knows this. When The Crime of Complicity came out, there was a fair amount of criticism of me in the American Jewish community because I was “Using my mother’s story to tell a contemporary story.” When I shared this with my mother, she was utterly befuddled.

For her, any opportunity to use her horrible story to tell a contemporary story was essential. And Mom Guiora—as Lentz knows, Mom Guiora being Mom Guiora—told me to say to them all to go fuck themselves, because that was her. That was the way she talked.

She truly saw this as an opportunity to “Use her story to prevent harm to others.”

Jacobsen: What justifications were used by Bonhoeffer, Barth, and others to combat the Reich? And what was used to justify it?

Lentz: Well, I think with Barth and Bonhoeffer—certainly Bonhoeffer—his relationship to Judaism in Germany is not clear-cut. There are early writings in which he argued that the Aryan laws were not right, on both political and theological grounds. So he was there early.

But he did come from the established German Protestant church, and I would not say, in any way, shape, or form, that he was progressive in terms of inclusion.

On the other hand—and Amos, you can correct me—I think part of what was so surprising, particularly in Germany, was the level of assimilation of the Jewish population. Universities, hospitals, and many institutions included established Jewish individuals and communities throughout Germany. That was essentially the status quo before the Reich.

And because that was the status quo, many people waited. Those not directly affected were unsure what was happening, and in that waiting, there was complicity through silence.

I think figures like Bonhoeffer and Barth were very early in recognizing the dangers of Hitler and the Nazis. They used the means they had, articulating from within their theological context what was wrong.

If I may jump ahead historically, because I see echoes of this in the American Christian context with President Trump—and I am not equating the two, only observing a pattern—it is striking how this happens. Christians tend to value authority. We like rules.

And particularly when one believe that the Führer, or the president, or some leader is on God’s side and restoring the spirit of the nation and the people, Christians often say, “We’ll support this,” and follow along.

I also think—and this is historically clear—there is a long history of antisemitism in the church, both in the Roman Catholic Church and the Protestant church since Martin Luther. There was always an undercurrent.

I think the popular church was probably not all that concerned unless it happened to their neighbour, someone they knew who was Jewish. That is always the tension. People grounded in theology and serious thought can see the horrors of this, but there is also that historic antisemitism that grounds many people’s thinking.

And when it comes to the Pope, it was political. Deals were being cut. There was a desire not to lose standing in the Reich or in political relationships. So deals were made. It is grotesque, but it happened.

Guiora: To build on that, Scott, John referenced Jewish assimilation in Germany and the assumption that Jews were part of the team. There is an outstanding book, The Pity of It All, by the Israeli journalist Amos Elon. The book won numerous awards. It ends on September 1, 1939—boom—where Elon argues that Jews in Germany believed they had served in World War I. They wore their medals, thought “go team,” and assumed it wouldn’t affect them.

They believed it was a passing phase, that Kristallnacht was not really that bad, that it was a temporary wave. John knows this; we have discussed it on innumerable occasions.

There are three areas of Holocaust research, Scott, that nobody wants to touch until all Holocaust survivors are deceased. They are uncomfortable.

One is Jewish collaboration.

Two is the role of the rabbis. For instance, as John knows well, my great-grandfather—an Orthodox Satmar rabbi in eastern Hungary—forbade his congregation and his family, including my grandparents, from making Aliyah to Palestine until the Messiah arrived. In that act—unintended—my grandparents found themselves in Auschwitz, where they were murdered on May 26, 1944. I can draw a direct connection, a topic nobody wants to address.

The third, as John also knows, is the role of Jewish women, like my grandmother, who provided sexual services to save their children. I have spoken about this openly. I am convinced—working backward—that to save my mother, who was twelve, my grandmother provided sexual services.

When I speak about this publicly, I have yet to encounter anyone, male or female, who would not do anything to save their children. Lentz has three children. I have three children. Would you do anything to save your children?

That matters in the broader conversation about how you confront and acknowledge evil.

One other point—I leave Christian theology to Lentz. The assumption—and John knows more than I do—that the Christian churches in Europe would do the right thing and save the Jews was a misbegotten hope. I hope that is not offensive. The historical record is the record.

Lentz: The exceptions prove the rule. Yes, there were a few. There were in very general terms perhaps ten individuals who helped here, or three churches that did something there. There was a period, particularly in the 1960s and 1970s, when many Christians wrote novels about individual Christians who helped Jews. That did happen.

Guiora: My late uncle—my father’s brother—survived by hiding in a monastery. I do not know whether Lentz has a similar story. It was in Hungary. I do not know the details, but that was an exception.

Lentz: Here is another related story. My wife and I became very friendly with an older woman who was raised in Germany during the war. She lost all her brothers in the fighting. She worked for the Red Cross, or the German equivalent, because everyone had to do what they had to do. Her father was a pastor in a small town; I do not remember the town’s name. She always said he was very anti-Nazi. I remember that clearly.

But when he learned that the Gestapo was in town, he would soften his sermons and keep things straight and narrow to protect himself, his congregation, and the village. It is interesting what people do under pressure.

She also told us very clearly that she was in a third-grade class with both Christian and Jewish children. One day, the Jewish girls were gone. They were gone. I pressed her and asked what that was like. I am paraphrasing—she has since died, so I cannot check the source—but she said that in third grade, you do not really understand what is happening.

Guiora: I asked my mother about this once, the only time I had the wherewithal to speak with her about it. She was twelve during the war. She returned to school in September 1945 at age thirteen. I asked her who she was angry at. This goes to John’spoint.

She placed herself back at thirteen, with classmates who did not ask her where she had been. Lentz knew my mother well. He did not question her. But for her, she expected her classmates to ask. With all due respect to her, that was an unreasonable expectation. What do thirteen-year-old girls know? It was an all-girls school.

This whole notion of expectations matters. I do not know, Scott, whether this is directly relevant to what John and I are discussing, but for her, that was something that stayed with her. Later in life, she became angry at others, but at thirteen, that was the focus of her anger.

Jacobsen: Severyn Ashkenazi, one of the three Holocaust survivors I have interviewed—published in the antisemitism volume—made a similar point about the idea that exceptions prove the rule. When I asked him about Catholic clergy who helped combat antisemitism, he paused, laughed, and said it was almost a joke: how many clergy helped—maybe a few thousand—compared with how many hundreds of thousands of clergy there were overall in the history of the Catholic Church to combat anti-Judaism and antisemitism. It’s the same sentiment, focused specifically on the Holocaust.

Did the technological prowess and the intellectual and cultural sophistication of Weimar Germany play a role in the scale of the Holocaust—the number killed, the extent of the brutality? Would it have been as systematic in a society with lower technological capacity or less scientific and cultural sophistication? Or was this level of destruction tied to the fact that Germany represented the peak of Western European civilization at the time?

Lentz: This is not my realm of historical expertise. Amos can speak to this more directly. But we know that antisemitism and brutality existed in Ukraine and Poland, which were not nearly as technologically sophisticated as the Reich. In 1939, when Germany invaded Poland with tanks and planes, Polish troops came on horseback—cavalry—and we know how that turned out.

So there is no simple cause-and-effect relationship. This is my view. I am thinking aloud here: I do not believe that technology and sophistication breed a higher level of antisemitism.

What I know about the interwar period is that it was marked by economic instability, the rise of the Communist Party, and the burden of reparations imposed on Germany. It was also culturally vibrant in some ways—Berlin, for example. I do not think there is a formula. To use a blunt historical phrase: things converge.

Would it have been different if President Wilson and the European powers had not demanded such extensive reparations? I do not know. Those are unknowns. That is my take. So no, there is no direct correlation.

Guiora: I agree with John. It does not happen every day, but I do not think technology explains the Holocaust. The technology associated with the Holocaust—gas chambers, railroads—was not particularly sophisticated.

When my grandparents were murdered in Auschwitz, they were killed in gas chambers, but we cannot blame technology for six million deaths. Perhaps efficiency can be blamed, but that efficiency was entirely predicated on antisemitism.

I have read widely—never everything—but I have never seen evidence that technology itself, beyond being a means, was the driver. Gas is not sophisticated technology.

When my father was sent to a forced-labour mining camp in Serbia, from which he ultimately made his way to Palestine, the work was not sophisticated. It was labour-intensive mining for the Nazis. They needed the ore, whatever it was.

So I do not think this is about technology. I think it is about institutionalized, systemic antisemitism. The church played a role, but I am hesitant to say it was only because of the church. It was part of the system.

There is no doubt that Hitler, an extraordinarily effective rhetorician, captivated large audiences. As Daniel Goldhagen argues in Hitler’s Willing Executioners—a controversial but essential book—this did not begin in 1933. It had been going on for a long time.

That matters. What John correctly notes is the long history of antisemitism that Jews lived with. On the other hand, my grandparents—murdered on May 26, 1944—did not have much interaction with Gentiles in their town. It was not precisely a shtetl, but they largely kept to themselves.

Yet when they were forced to walk from their home to the train station—and this I know—their fellow townspeople cursed them, jeered at them, and threw objects at them. Whether those townspeople knew the destination was Auschwitz, I do not know. But they saw Jews carrying bags and being marched away.

That reality must be discussed. And it has nothing to do with technology.

Lentz: Before you asked the question, I wanted to mention another book—extraordinary in its horrors—Constantine’sSword by James Carroll. He is a Catholic and documents the Roman Catholic Church’s long European history of religious antisemitism. But to be clear, after Luther’s Reformation, it did not improve in the Protestant church either.

Guiora: Do you know who recommended that I read that book?

Lentz: No.

Guiora: My father.

Lentz: That does not surprise me.

Jacobsen: This is a two-part question. Either can respond first, but it will go to John and then to Amos.

John, about the church, how did the Reich twist the Gospel to enable utilitarian-style murder? Amos, about those who did not twist the Gospel, how were they complicit as bystanders?

Lentz: There is no doubt that in the New Testament—particularly in the Gospels of John and Matthew, and also in some passages of Paul’s letters—there are verses that are pointed against Jews in first-century Palestine. The horrific “Christ-killer” narrative, the idea that Jews killed Jesus, arises out of a verse in the Gospel of Matthew.

If you want to find justification for antisemitism in the Bible, you can find it. Those within the church who were antisemitic, along with Hitler’s associates who manipulated the church, were quick to say, “See, from the beginning, this is the separation of Christianity from Judaism.”

It became so distorted that some even claimed Jesus was not Jewish. Of course, he was.

One more point, the idea that Hitler was being portrayed as a messiah is what drove Karl Barth to help write the Barmen Declaration. That was central.

Another issue was that the Reich controlled the church, which was abhorrent to Christians who took theology seriously.

Third, anyone who reads the Gospels with care knows the emphasis on caring for the widow, the orphan, the aggrieved, and the marginalized; protecting your neighbour; loving your neighbour. That theme runs through both Hebrew scripture and Christianity.

“Love thy neighbour,” the Golden Rule—grounded in Hebrew scripture and carried into the New Testament. Both strains exist. But the antisemitic strain is what makes this so grotesque.

In the first century, it was the Romans, in collaboration with some Jewish religious leaders. But to claim that Jews killed Jesus was sick then and now.

Guiora: Scott, for me, as I think about this, I have walked the route my grandparents took to the train station. I did not have the emotional strength to walk it all the way; I had someone with me who drove part of it. I could not bring myself to walk the entire way.

When I think about that walk and about the Gentile townspeople, I wonder what motivated them. Were they driven by the kind of deep antisemitism John describes? What had they heard in church on Sunday? I do not know.

At the end of the day—and I am exaggerating slightly—the number of people who came to Jews’ assistance, specifically on Christian grounds, is unclear to me. John may know more than I do. Were there people who came forward? Yes. Have I interviewed people whose parents took Jews in? Yes.

In Holland, for example—not Hungary—some families took Jews in at night and then asked them to leave the next day because they feared the consequences for their own families. I do not know the answer to your question.

Were those actions guided by Christian conviction, by Christian compassion, or were they simply people doing the right thing? I have also met a woman whose brother was taken in out of compassion, and when the knock came on the door, the people hiding the child faced that moment of decision.

It is not very easy. There is no clear answer. I don’t know whether those who provided refuge were motivated by Christian principles or were good people acting decently. 

Lentz: You raise a fascinating question, Amos. 

Guiora: Write that down. John said that Amos raised an important point—write that down.

Lentz: I genuinely think this could be a fascinating study: how people reacted—how people, not just Christians, reacted. Did they save or protect Jewish individuals out of Christian motivation? I do not have the answer.

Likewise, did people ignore Jews or turn them in because of Christian conviction? I raise this because of a parallel today. I pastored a church that took in an undocumented person because of my Christian convictions—and also because I am a decent person. But my faith convictions mattered.

I was called “anti-Christ” on Facebook. Other churches said we were absolutely wrong because, as Paul writes in Romans, Christians must respect political authorities. That, they argued, is part of faithful Christianity.

That would be an essential study. 

Guiora: Scott, I have a friend—John knows this—who does not view John as a faithful Christian. I want that on the record. But again, it underscores the question. The people in Holland who took Jews in—God bless them—were they acting out of Christian compassion, or were they simply decent people? I do not know their motivations.

Jacobsen: The question is this: what reflections actually help us internalize the lessons of the Holocaust, and what reflections merely involve stroking our crosses, our yarmulkes, and our own egos without actually doing anything—performative acts rather than moral action?

Guiora: I’ll go first because I have to step away. I’m older than John.

For me, people who did not act then were bystanders. I wrote that in my book, and I stand by it. Enablers are a different category. That is a different project. But people who saw my grandparents being shoved onto a train platform were bystanders. They were not enablers. That is a different category.

Today, people—and, for privacy reasons, we will not name my student who is working with you—we met for an hour to prepare for her call with you about what bystanders and enablers look like today, for example, in the context of ICE. One significant change, which she will discuss with you, is the role of social media. That is a significant game-changer.

For instance, here in Utah, when Representative Brian King passed the bystander bill, he determined that because you never know whether what you see on Facebook is true, you cannot be a bystander based solely on social media content. That raises an important question about complicity—what we know, what we do not know, what is true, and what is not.

On the other hand, when my grandparents were being shoved onto that train, there were photographs. Those who were present were bystanders. Or take my mother—after being saved from being shot twice, as John knows—running through Budapest with my grandmother, both wearing yellow stars. Those who saw them were bystanders.

But here is the complication. If my mother were here—and my father as well, as Lentz knows—they both objected to my book. My mother said, as did my father during his forced march through Serbia, that the villagers in Serbia and the Gentiles in Budapest did not owe them a duty because they were “the other.”

Both of my parents strongly disagreed with my theory about the obligation a bystander owes to the “other” in that moment. We respectfully agreed to disagree.

I will stop there and turn it over to John. I am constantly asked about bystanders and enablers in contemporary society—not only in the context of sexual assault, but also in situations like ICE. Where that leads, I do not know, but it raises critical questions.

For example, at a recent demonstration here, there were two hundred people. In Israel, four hundred thousand people are demonstrating every Saturday night—equivalent to twenty million Americans—hot or cold, rain or shine, facing harassment, including physical harassment. I have been accosted by police myself. That is what sustained civic resistance looks like.

Israelis often ask me why, when Americans are angry about what is happening, the streets are not filled.

Lentz: The work of institutions such as the Maltz Museum in Cleveland, Ohio, is essential. They have recorded countless survivor stories—people who immigrated to the United States and settled in Cleveland—and they maintain a vast archive of recorded interviews. Continuing to tell these stories and affirming that this really happened matters.

Those of us who have platforms—particularly Christian clergy—must use them to combat antisemitism. When preaching on lectionary passages that have historically been interpreted as “the Jews killed Jesus,” we must name that interpretation directly and reject it.

My relationship with Amos, my research on Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and my broader reading about the period leading up to the Holocaust and its aftermath have profoundly shaped me. When we became a sanctuary church, that decision was made consciously. I did not want to be a bystander, as so many of my predecessors in Germany were during the Holocaust.

This is why it matters to make these connections. What deeply concerns me today is the whitewashing of historical narratives—particularly through educational policy—that suggests everything has been fine in American history. Comments minimizing the harms of the civil rights era exemplify this distortion.

We have to keep the stories alive. Those of us with platforms cannot be bystanders. That must be our moral stance.

What also troubles me deeply is social media as a platform for doxing and harassment. People sometimes seem to enjoy that chaos. But what disturbs me most is the professed evangelical fundamentalist Christian support for the State of Israel, rooted not in concern for Jewish people, but in apocalyptic theology—the belief that Israel must exist in a particular form to bring about the end of the world.

Jacobsen: Rhetorically, what could be more antisemitic than using Israel as a geographic instrument to place Jewish people there to trigger the end of the world?

Lentz: I agree. What makes it even more antisemitic is that in that worldview, when Jesus returns, Jews who do not convert are condemned. That is grotesque. I can easily imagine the same people promoting that theology today as having promoted similar ideas in the past—calling for Jews to be sent to Israel, or previously, to be removed from Germany. These ideas flow together, and they are extraordinarily dangerous. That is what deeply concerns me.

Jacobsen: That was the point I wanted to close on for this session: the difference between performative gestures—stroking egos without effect—and using a platform responsibly. Leadership is often seasonal; it ebbs and flows. Particularly in democratic societies, leadership cycles are short. Because platforms are temporary, how people use them matters. The content may stay the same, but the framing and impact change depending on who is speaking and when.

Lentz: I agree. We also have to be judged by our actions. In our church, the decision to take in an undocumented person was carried out by people in the congregation, not just in words.

I am involved in organizations where I build deep relationships with rabbis and Jewish community members. I want them to know that I have their backs if they feel threatened, especially as antisemitism rises in the United States.

I want to be clear: criticizing the policies of the Israeli government is not the same as antisemitism, but that is a separate discussion. What matters here is solidarity and trust.

Using my platform, I recently published a book titled What’s Faith Got to Do With It? Learning to Love and Live the Questions. One chapter focuses on reclaiming Jesus, the relationship between Christianity and Judaism, and how right-wing theology often misrepresents both in ways that are deeply antisemitic.

In that chapter, I emphasize that Jesus was Jewish, grounded in the Jewish prophetic tradition of justice and inclusion, and committed to a universal vision of human dignity. I hold to the theology that the Messiah will arrive only when no longer needed—that it is our responsibility to build a world that reflects justice, compassion, and shared humanity.

Jacobsen: John, thank you very much for your time today. 

Lentz: Very good. It was a pleasure speaking with you again.

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