When I arrived at Vanderbilt Divinity School in 1994, I enrolled in a class that caught my eye: “Theology and the Nazi State,” taught by Jack Forstman. Given my family’s hasty departure from the Third Reich in the late 1930s, and my own interest in theology, I was intrigued. The course turned out to be the most engaging class of my many years as a student, taught by one of the best professors I have ever met.
Twice per week, we sat around the edges of the classroom, six rectangular tables arranged into one large conference table. Dr. Forstman would begin with context, after which we engaged in rigorous discussion and debate over timely theological topics: the nature of sin, civil disobedience, and the divine Nein to our cultural values. I loved the lively give-and-take with colleagues and with the professor.
A couple of months into the semester, however, I saw this was likely to change—at least for one class. We were assigned to read about and discuss the Aryan Paragraph. This regrettable incident in the history of Christianity involved the German Church deciding to follow the lead of the Nazi government and prohibit non-Aryans, and those married to non-Aryans, from working in churches. Jewish converts to Christianity—of which there were a significant number—and those married to non-Aryan wives, could no longer serve parishes.
While an important event, crucial to understanding Christianity during the Third Reich, I remember thinking, “This is going to be one boring discussion.” Would we all just take turns saying it was bad, echoing each other’s condemnation? That did not sound like a thought-provoking or challenging class.
Partly out of intellectual curiosity, and partly an expression of my, say, disputatious personality, I decided to take on the task of defending the Aryan Paragraph.
Before that class period, I pored over the materials, trying to adopt the mindset of an intelligent, decent human being who could support such a measure, as was the case with a number of its proponents. These weren’t bloodthirsty SS, but theologians trying to do the right thing. How could they justify this policy to themselves and others?
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When we all met on Tuesday, I waited for the requisite condemnations of both the Aryan Paragraph and its supporters before raising my hand. “You know, the idea actually makes some sense.” I then laid out, in my own words, the position of those Nazi sympathizers as best I could. I didn’t present a strawman. I didn’t sound like an unmoored racist, but I tried my best to make a cogent argument for cultural solidarity amid social unrest. I made their case as best I could, not motivated by support for the policy, but for the sheer intellectual challenge of it all.
As I presented my arguments, I noticed Dr. Forstman with a slight grin on one half of his timeworn face. He knew exactly what I was up to. Our good professor didn’t inject any of his own thoughts, but watched to see how it would play out. There were some wide eyes around the table. My friend Maria, across the room, looked especially distressed. Was the classmate she regularly hung out with a Nazi? “How can you say that??!!”
I don’t remember exactly how the conversation played out. I do know it was thoughtful and lively, and the professor assured everyone at the end that it was possible to make an argument for a position one doesn’t believe, as he and I coyly exchanged half-grins. Afterward, we students headed off to lunch. No one was reported, nor did anyone feel unsafe. Maria and I remained friends for years. We all simply knew we had explored something in a way that deserved to be studied.
On today’s campus—as has been the case for some decades now—faculty colleagues and students are incredulous that I once defended Nazis in a classroom during my student days—and without even the qualifier, “just to play devil’s advocate.” My actions were bold, maybe a little obnoxious, but not something that merited administrative notice. The educational value was clearly understood by a room full of reasonable people.
Over the decades that I have been in the classroom, as both student and teacher, I have observed greater reticence among students during difficult discussions. They tell me that even if individual professors claim to welcome the free exchange of ideas, they fear one another and what will be posted on social media even more. Professors often share these same fears, choosing to steer clear of even presenting unpopular viewpoints about the war in Gaza, transgender rights, or Black Lives Matter. However, something very important is being lost, and we, faculty and administration, need to correct this deficiency. Only if we model for our students how adults should engage with disturbing ideas will we correct our course.
Was advocating for the Aryan Paragraph going too far? Let me suggest four reasons why it was actually conducive to a quality education:
First, we need to understand history. To grasp events like the rise of the Third Reich, we must comprehend the motivations of the people we study. Attributing the actions of those involved to some vague notion of “evil” is insufficient. There were certainly sociopathic sadists involved, but the vast majority were not. Empathizing with others is essential to historical work. Failure to understand their motives is a failure to understand humanity’s past. Whether trying to empathize with a 20th-century Imperial Japanese soldier, a 12th-century Christian Crusader, or a 5th-century BCE Persian emperor, it is the work to understand the actions of people very different from you and me that illuminates history. In the context of my class with Dr. Forstman, we did not study the Holocaust to study the Holocaust; we did so that we may recognize comparable events in the future when they arise and respond to them effectively. If we cannot relate to others’ reasoning and motivations, we are unlikely to engage with them productively. Discernment is a necessary foundation for dialogue. Perceiving the other simply as a vile mystery is not.
Second, a proper education cultivates critical thinking. What are the a priori assumptions of the other person? Which elements of their reasoning are sound? Which are flawed? What is factual and what is missing? These questions challenge us first to get inside the head of another person. When others are reduced to strawmen or demons, be they SS or ISIS, the opportunity to engage in critical thought is stolen from us. We, teachers and students, must make a habit of this kind of intellectual engagement if we are to excel as critical thinkers.
Third, educated people can give voice to their convictions. I often tell my students that being able to write and speak well are two of the most useful abilities they can cultivate. Proficiency with the spoken and written word are, quite simply, power! When classrooms have orthodoxies—spoken or unspoken—students do not face the challenge of organizing their thoughts, developing clarity, and presenting them to the world through speech. Only if the perspective of the “other” is presented fairly can we practice effective responses. Were the German Christians wrong to advocate the Aryan Paragraph? Sure! We all recognize this with a jumbled collection of half-formed thoughts. Force students to defend their position, out loud or in writing, and they will discover the power that comes from clear communication.
And fourthly, maybe we are the Nazis. When reading about the Holocaust, there is a tendency to project ourselves into history as either the victims or the courageous opposition. Rarely does our imaginative narrative feature us as the evildoer. Yet, to which category would most of us have belonged? The numbers don’t lie. “Man’s inhumanity to man” is not all carried out by monsters, as Hannah Arendt famously argued. Most banal acts of violence are committed by those we regard as ordinary folks; people like you and me. If we cannot understand the Nazis and why they carried out the acts they perpetrated, how will we recognize such a trajectory in ourselves in a different time and place? Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was absolutely correct: “The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart—and through all human hearts.” Empathizing with evildoers helps us understand how they were sucked into their deplorable behaviors. With that insight, we undertake the eternal discipline to watch for our own potential complicity with evil before it stands before us with cloven hoofs, horns, and tail.
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Whether our approach to historical events is descriptive or normative, empathic scrutiny of those we study is essential to a high-quality education. Courses in ethics, sociology, or political science, no less than history, require students and professors to actively work toward a better understanding of the Zeitgeist, motivations, and logic of those being studied. They should be understood on their own terms.
Placing historical figures in their proper social and intellectual milieu—in keeping with the historiographic approach of Quentin Skinner and the Cambridge School—requires us to adopt the ideological lens of those being studied. Dismissive attitudes based on anachronistic and presentist judgments lead to caricatures and stereotypes of history. The pursuit of descriptive historiography demands better of us.
If the historical task is normative—more akin to the work of Howard Zinn and current advocates of a Social Justice approach in the classroom—our moral evaluation of others’ beliefs is only deepened when we can view things from their side of the fence. A meaningful moral analysis of the viewpoints of others is impossible if we deal with simplistic or clichéd conceptions of their ideas. Empathy for monsters and villains can certainly be unpleasant and challenging, especially for students and faculty who prefer to condemn offensive viewpoints quickly. However, that quick vault also leaps over important and rigorous intellectual work, rendering our analyses less compelling. Consider Daryl Davis, the black American gentleman who befriended members of the KKK, eventually inspiring dozens of them to leave the Klan. Without his effort first to honestly understand, empathize with, and engage their racist worldview, he could never have assisted them in the moral reevaluation of their beliefs.
Some will agree that students should be presented with diverse and complex perspectives, “But Nazis? Surely that’s too far.” However, if we can learn to empathize with Nazis, while still holding to our principles, who then is beyond our ken? We can, and should, be able to empathize with Hutus, the Taliban, or the Khmer Rouge. There is an important precedent established here for our students. No viewpoints will be excluded from class for being offensive, harmful, or hateful. This sets the stage for the more nuanced, complex, and necessary conversations when genuine disagreement within the class exists. We affirm the essential task of finding empathy for groups like Hamas as well as the Israeli Defense Force in the effort to grasp that situation better. Those who might silence discussion, because they find certain viewpoints repugnant, must gain no traction.
If it is true that today’s students increasingly shun complex topics, we faculty must do our best to reverse this momentum. Empathizing with Nazis may not be comfortable, but who said a quality education should be?
Image: “WW2 German occupation Oslo Norway 1940-04-09 Wehrmacht troop Soldiers marching Karl Johans gate Slottet Universitetet Mounted police etc Henriksen & Steen Nasjonalbiblioteket” by Henriksen & Steen on Wikimedia Commons
