CLEVELAND HEIGHTS (OH)
The Good Men Project [Pasadena CA]
July 4, 2025
By Scott Douglas Jacobsen
How should we address the legacy of clergy abuse, and what reforms can advocate for institutional accountability?
Rev. Dr. John C. Lentz Jr. served over 30 years as Lead Pastor of Forest Hill Presbyterian Church in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. Known for passionate preaching, community leadership, and a commitment to justice and compassion, he profoundly shaped the Church’s mission before retiring in 2024 after a celebrated ministry. Lentz reflects on his 30-year tenure at Forest Hill Presbyterian Church, where he inherited the traumatic legacy of sexual abuse by a former associate pastor. Lentz details the Church’s response—early efforts at acknowledgment, limited legal options, and survivor support—highlighting the structural weaknesses in denominational accountability. He explores systemic patterns of abuse across denominations, including the role of clerical authority, enabling networks, and institutional cover-ups. Drawing from neuroscience, psychology, and theology, Lentz emphasizes the importance of independent investigations, seminary reform, and third-party oversight. He warns against simplistic narratives that scapegoat Catholicism alone and calls for nuanced, data-driven reform efforts across religious institutions. He discussed how virtues like compassion and forgiveness, without accountability, can become vulnerabilities. Both advocate for cultural and institutional reforms rooted in moral clarity, survivor support, and transparent justice processes. The dialogue ultimately calls for partnership—not polarization—in addressing clergy abuse.
Scott Douglas Jacobsen: So, you are a former pastor at Forest Hill Presbyterian Church. What is the story there? We can use that as a context for a broader conversation about a wider phenomenon.
Rev. Dr. John Lentz: Yes. I served as pastor at Forest Hill Church for thirty years, from 1994 to 2024. During my final interview before being offered the position, the search committee told me something they felt I needed to know. They said, “John, we need to tell you this because it might affect your decision to come here.” They explained that a previous associate pastor had been involved in the sexual abuse of youth in the congregation.
That wasn’t comforting to hear. Here is what I learned so from personal knowledge: In 1977, Reverend Dale Small became the associate pastor at Forest Hill Church. He came from another congregation in the Detroit area of Michigan. His primary responsibilities were overseeing the confirmation program and leading retreat and camping ministries. He served in that role until 1981.
Afterward, he retired and was granted the honorary title of pastor emeritus. He moved to North Carolina following his retirement. In 1984, he organized a reunion-style camping trip for former youth members of Forest Hill Church in North Carolina. During that event, one former youth participant—by then in his twenties—experienced a resurgence of traumatic memories related to prior abuse. He left the trip and returned home.
Later that year, he and his parents sent a letter to the Church’s governing body (the session) reporting that Dale Small had sexually abused him. The letter also mentioned other possible victims, although it is unclear how many individuals were named or how those claims were verified.
When I joined the Church in 1994, ten years after that disclosure, I learned that the session at the time had responded by engaging a consultant—though I do not know their name—to assess what actions should be taken to support the congregation, particularly its youth. They also reportedly sent letters to families whose children had been part of the youth group or confirmation classes during that period, asking whether anything inappropriate had occurred.
It was reported that at least half a dozen boys came forward, identifying themselves as victims of abuse. Many of these boys came from homes where the father was absent or where the family structure had been disrupted. All of the reported victims were male.
Even years later, I encountered the impact of this traumatic history. One individual told me he had been abused not directly by Reverend Small but by someone who had themselves been abused and possibly groomed by Small. I also became close to someone a few years younger than me who eventually disclosed that he had been one of the victims. He confided in me and described the abuse in detail.
His account matched what is now known to be common patterns in clergy abuse cases: identifying vulnerable boys, assuming the role of a surrogate father figure, using pastoral authority to gain trust, showing excessive attention, and initiating inappropriate physical contact during church retreats—starting with massages and escalating to sexual abuse.
As more stories emerged, it was essential to support survivors in any way I could. I recall one conversation with a survivor in which I said, “Whatever you need, I will help. Let’s pursue justice if that’s what you want.” By that time, Reverend Small had passed away so that any legal recourse would have been limited. Still, the priority was to provide acknowledgment, support, and whatever healing was possible.
There was also a statute of limitations, and unfortunately, it was heartbreaking. The abuse survivor did not want to proceed. He still had such mixed and conflicted emotions about this man—someone he said he loved and who, he believed, loved him. You can imagine the emotional complexity and heartbreak that comes with hearing something like that.
Then Dale Small died, so pursuing anything in a legal sense became moot. I did ensure, however, that he was no longer listed as pastor emeritus. I also informed our local presbytery, which removed Dale Small from the rolls as a retired and honourably retired pastor.
I have probably left out many details, but that’s the general account. That part is fact—that is what I know to be true. What lies in the murkier areas—and this is what makes it so difficult—is that there were some alleged incidents of misconduct at Dale Small’s previous Church in Michigan. Now, my predecessor—whom I overall have great respect for and who was a prominent leader in this community—knew Dale Small personally. He was the one who called and invited him to serve at Forest Hill Church.
I cannot say with any degree of certainty, and I have no evidence, that he knew of the abuse or that he was abused. But, from what I understand, he may have been a classic enabler.
Jacobsen: I believe Margaret Atwood was asked in an interview last year about Alice Munro. She said something about boundaries in response to a question about that situation. She did the interview. She was asked about Alice Munro, who has passed away. The interviewer mentioned that Munro’s daughter was abused by her stepfather when she was a single digit age. Someone brought this to Munro’s attention at the time, but she did not act. Atwood’s response was something along the lines of, “I was a professional friend, not a confidant.”
Does that kind of analysis apply to your friend as well?
Lentz: Which friend do you mean? The contemporary friend or the pastor?
Jacobsen: The older pastor—your predecessor.
Lentz: I do not know. When the allegations surfaced, my predecessor said he was not aware of them. To his credit—and this is based on what I’ve heard—he did not attempt to block any investigation. I know several of the church leaders from that time, including the church attorney.
To the best of my knowledge, my predecessor did not attempt to hinder any of the investigations into the allegations. Nor, to my knowledge, did he defend Pastor Small publicly or in any official letters. I do not want to say more than that because I genuinely do not know. One other piece, which I admit could be me defending my institution—and I recognize that possibility—but I will put it out there. Since these events occurred before my tenure, I can view them with some degree of objectivity and a certain distance.
I believe that Forest Hill Church’s response to supporting victims was one of the earlier public acknowledgments of sexual abuse within the Presbyterian Church. I am not sure if it made national news. Still, I do think it contributed to a shift in the atmosphere within the denomination. It helped initiate the process of establishing guardrails and accountability measures for clergy, lay leaders, and all church employees. That much, I believe, is true. So, that’s that part of the story.
Another related experience occurred about fifteen years ago—I can provide you with the exact dates. As part of myresponsibilities within the presbytery, I served as the chair of the Permanent Judicial Commission, essentially functioning as the chief justice for that body. Charges were brought against a currently serving pastor.
What was interesting—and, in some ways, troubling—was how the authority of the Presbyterian Church functioned in that context. While there are sound theological and ecclesial reasons for this structure, there was a failure of process. Ultimately, we could only remove his ordination. We had no authority to initiate legal proceedings, and we, as the presbytery, could not bring criminal charges ourselves, as I understood it.
Once this pastor renounced the jurisdiction of the Church under Presbyterian canon law, we were unable to pursue the matter further. The policy has since changed. Now, I believe we are required to retain investigative files for a designated number of years so that in the event of a criminal trial, our findings and testimony can be used as evidence.
Jacobsen: What have you observed as not helpful in other denominations’ responses to abuse cases?
Lentz: Let me think about that for a moment. I would say this, and I want to be careful. I understand the deep trust that exists between a parishioner and a pastor and how meaningful that relationship is—especially in contexts involving confession or personal disclosure.
In the Presbyterian Church, we do not treat confession the same way the Roman Catholic Church does. However, I believe that using a pastoral or confessional setting to protect a perpetrator is entirely unacceptable. That kind of confidentiality should not be used to shield someone from justice.
I know that in some parts of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the Roman Catholic Church, there is still a strong emphasis on absolute confidentiality in such contexts, even when crimes are confessed. That greatly concerns me.
Other issues are more anecdotal. For example, I believe many pastors—myself included, at times—can have an inflated sense of both ego and expertise. Some pastors begin to think they are a person’s primary psychological therapist. But I am not a therapist—I am a pastor. My role, at best, is to triage and then refer people to professionals who are trained in mental health care.
So, when pastors assume too much authority—whether because of how they interpret scripture or the power given to them by their role—they sometimes overstep. That is dangerous. Accountability is essential.
We now have a system in place in the Presbyterian Church where pastors are designated legal reporters. If I hear of abuse,I am required to report it. If an accusation is made against me, a formal process begins. It involves the clerk of the session—who is the top layperson in the Church—and the associate pastor, among others. There are clearly defined steps now.
There is a whole process for adjudicating these kinds of accusations. Therefore, any denomination that lacks a clear and transparent process should be held accountable in some way. I’m not sure what that accountability would look like in every case. Still, at the very least, they should be publicly called out—shamed, even—for failing to take these issues seriously.
Another significant gap I see is in seminaries. I still do not believe that enough is being taught about the seriousness of sexual abuse in church contexts—how to hold oneself accountable, how to hold others accountable, and how to actively create a culture where abuse does not occur under your care. That is a structural problem that needs urgent attention.
Jacobsen: Are there areas where there is such hypervigilance that it becomes counterproductive—where it reflects broader cultural anxiety rather than actual prevention?
Lentz: Yes, that is a great question. One of the unfortunate byproducts of necessary hypervigilance—because it is needed—is that it can sometimes create a feeling of suspicion or fear that deters good people from volunteering.
Take, for example, a family with two children in Sunday school. The parents want to help out, but now they are required to go through multiple steps, including a criminal background check, safety training, abuse prevention protocols, and more. None of these are inherently evil. They are reasonable and necessary measures that send a clear message: “We take this seriously. We want to protect your child and you.”
But on the flip side, it can also unintentionally send a different message: “There must be a real problem here if the safeguards are this extensive.” That perception, although unintended, has deterred some well-meaning volunteers.
Another example is how we set specific guidelines in Forest Hill Church’s child safety policy. We outlined exactly how many adults must be present in a room, who is allowed to escort children to the bathroom, who can drive them, and who can supervise them. But inevitably, gray areas arise.
Say a father is volunteering, and everyone else has gone home. One child remains, and the parents have not arrived yet. The volunteer calls to report the situation, and the response used to be something like, “Thank you for checking in—please go ahead and take little Johnny home.” Today, in that same situation, I might think, “Have we now created a liability risk or a situation where something could go wrong?”
That said, in my experience as a pastor, most people appreciate how far we go to protect children. More and more parents today, when searching for a church, are actively asking whether we have a sexual misconduct policy, whether our Sunday school teachers are trained, and what our prevention strategies are. So, no—I do not think the hypervigilance has been a net negative in my experience.
Jacobsen: Do you think third-party investigations are essential in these cases? Independent reviews beyond the Church itself.
Lentz: Third-party investigations are vital. You can have all the internal reforms and guardrails in place, but without independent review, it lacks credibility. Even from a purely public standpoint, it is essential.
When something happens at a church, you cannot simply handle it internally. You have to be willing to make that call—to law enforcement or an external body. Yes, it might create bad optics, but that is the cost of doing the right thing. Transparency is not optional; it is the moral and ethical price you pay for being entrusted with people’s lives and trust.
It would be hard—I am not saying it would not be difficult. As a pastor, I might very well know the person involved. They may have texted me; I may have attended social engagements with them; I may have even officiated at their child’s wedding. I can imagine how excruciating that would be. But even so, we cannot just say no. If a crime has been committed or alleged, you have to follow through with it—no matter how personally painful it may be.
Jacobsen: From a pastoral point of view, what do you think were the motivations behind the policies of silence or secrecy instituted by some denominations—especially the Catholic Church—when they reassigned clergy to other parishes after misconduct or when they attempted quiet reintegration?
Lentz: Obviously, this is speculative. I do not have direct evidence, so I want to acknowledge that upfront. But I can speak based on what I have observed and discussed with others. The theological or ecclesiastical justification, particularly in Catholicism, often revolves around the sanctity of the confessional. The idea is that when someone confesses their sins to a priest and God, that moment is sacred and protected. The confessional is meant to be inviolable.
I do know priests who would respond to such a confession by saying, “You committed a crime. You need to turn yourselfin.” That is, in my view, an appropriate and responsible response—and I am sure that has happened in some cases. But the reality is that nothing in Catholic doctrine requires the priest to report the crime, even if they know someone has been seriously harmed.
So, you end up with a situation where the confessor might receive absolution, but what happens to the victim? What about restoration? Repentance is not just about the sinner; it has to include the harmed party. Any serious conversation on this issue must include the question of repair—what restoration and justice look like for the victim.
Restorative justice models can be effective in some instances. There may be a time when the parties come together for a mediated conversation. I do not want to push that as a universal solution—it may not be right in many cases—but I can imagine that, for some, it could be a moment of grace.
What absolutely must end is the simplistic, linear model of “I confess, I’m sorry,” and the priest says, “Say five Hail Marys, and you’re forgiven.” That is spiritual malpractice. That’s not justice—it is a distortion of forgiveness. We have to stop perpetuating that.
This problem—of minimizing clergy misconduct—was not unique to Catholicism. It occurred in many denominations. There was a time when someone like Pastor Dale would be described as “overworked” or “stressed,” and people would say he had “poor boundaries.” The solution was often to give him a week off and place him in a new context, hoping that everything would work out.
That is unacceptable. In the Presbyterian Church today, according to our Book of Order and our broader system of governance, such quiet reassignment is no longer permitted.
Does it ever still happen? Unfortunately, probably. But we now have strict guidelines. If any allegations are made, they must be reported to the presbytery. The presbytery must then inform any other presbytery to which the accused might be seeking transfer. That creates a system of accountability where the receiving presbytery is also obligated to act.
Indeed, this type of reassignment has significantly declined in the Presbyterian Church. I do not have complex numbers to offer, but I can say with confidence that the process today is much more rigorous.
Jacobsen: What about the broader implications of these patterns—especially outside of Presbyterian structures?
Lentz: Yes, one of the lingering effects we continue to see—especially in non-Presbyterian contexts, and primarily within the Catholic Church—is the legacy of institutional protectionism. That damage is still unfolding, and I believe it will take generations to address fully.
Jacobsen: An example of institutional failure is the silence, cover-up, and the practice of moving clergy to new parishes. From a mathematical point of view, let’s say you have two abusive clergy members out of 100. If those two are quietly moved around four times to different parishes, that inflates the perception.
What happens is that, although the actual number of perpetrators is two, it begins to look like 10 different parishes have had abuse cases. So it now appears—incorrectly—that 10 out of 100 parishes have had abuse, when in fact it is still only two out of 100. But in the process, justice is delayed, additional harm may be caused, and the institutional reputation is severely damaged.
Do we have any approximate numbers of clergy involved? Because I know it is a sensitive topic. And I think part of the problem is that when this issue was taken up by some of the more strident “New Atheist” voices, it became a tool to bash the entire Church—rather than a sincere attempt to work toward reform.
The better approach would be to work with the innocent clergy and the victims to set up institutional reform while also respecting freedom of religion and belief. What has been your experience with the numbers? Is there any insight you can offer?
Lentz: That’s an important point, and I agree—the goal should be to work with people, not against them, and to protect both accountability and religious freedom. Now, I can only speak from my experience, which is a small sample size. Butin my 30 years of serving in this presbytery—which includes around 50 or 60 churches in the Cleveland area—I am personally aware of three cases.
One of those cases involved a pastor who was not accused of direct abuse but was found to have downloaded child pornography. While no individual victims were identified, that behaviour is, of course, deeply troubling and incompatible with the pastoral role. The other two cases involved clear instances of clergy sexual abuse. Out of approximately 60 churches over the past 30 years, I am aware of three cases. Statistically, that is a small percentage—but each case matters profoundly.
You are right to highlight the danger of inflated perceptions. When a small number of individuals are relocated, and their misconduct is not addressed transparently, it artificially inflates the perception of widespread abuse—and in the meantime, more people are harmed.
That is why, instead of silence, cover-up, and transfer, the institution needs to name the problem directly. This should start as early as seminary training. When I was preparing for ordination, I went through an entire weekend of psychological testing and counselling sessions with trained therapists. These were designed to probe our motivations, character, and readiness. I do not know if seminaries still do that, but they absolutely should—especially concerning issues related to sexuality, power, and boundaries.
We must acknowledge that there has been cover-up in the past. We must blow the top off that silence. We also need a transparent and documented process for transfers. That is one way to limit the potential for repeat offences.
Jacobsen: This is not just a church problem—it is a cultural one, too. We see it in the Larry Nassar case. We see it in Hollywood. Hollywood, in many ways, is even more egregious because these individuals often have more personal power and institutional protection than a single clergy member. So even in these so-called “secular” environments—where there is no ecclesiastical structure—the abuse can be just as bad, if not worse.
Abuse of power transcends the religious and secular divides. Whether it is in churches, Olympic teams, or film studios, the issue is cultural. So the deeper question becomes: What are the cultural forces that serve as accelerants—or brakes—on this kind of behaviour?
How can we develop a culture, especially within religious communities, where clergy do not cross these lines in the first place? Where systems are in place to prevent it? Where the reporting process is trusted and respected? And how do we structure accountability in ways that center victims and deter future abuse?
Those are the questions we need to be asking—not only within our denominations but across institutions, sectors, and ideologies. Additionally, we must acknowledge that there have been significant difficulties in both the recruitment and retention of clergy across many denominations. Several of the challenges stem from stress, workload, and the overall demands of the job. Even so, most pastors still report high levels of job satisfaction.
At the same time, even if those pressures increase vulnerability or create environments where bad things might happen, I want to be very clear—I do not see those as excuses. To explain a phenomenon is not the same as explaining it away—or excusing it.
Lentz: Understanding the context is not the same as offering a justification. It is helpful to recognize the reality of pastoral stress. Some clergy are working 50 to 60 hours a week. That matters for understanding mental health and burnout, but it does not explain—or excuse—abuse.
I’ve worked 60-hour weeks. I’ve had moments where I’ve felt overwhelmed, exhausted, even at my wits’ end. But not once did that ever come close to pushing me toward crossing a grotesque boundary like sexually abusing anyone. So, yes, it’s a factor to consider for context, but I do not believe it’s a cause—at least not in any direct or morally relevant way.
The causes of abuse are deeper. And I’ll admit—I’m stepping a bit outside my expertise here. But that does not mean I will not try to explore it. In the church culture I’ve been part of, there is no ambiguity. Sexual abuse of children—of girls, boys, or anyone—is antithetical to the pastoral call. It is not walking in the way of Jesus. It is not aligned with any authentic understanding of pastoral care.
But here’s something I remember clearly. And I want to be cautious—it is a broad brush. Back in seminary, my friend andI would often discuss this over dinner. We would ask, “How many of our classmates would we want as our pastor?” Andthe answer, unfortunately, was probably not many.
Now, I am not suggesting that any of them were abusive. What I am suggesting is that the pastoral profession may skew toward people who are—how shall I put it—emotionally needy or working through unresolved personal issues. And the Church can be an incredibly welcoming place for those people.
Church culture—at its best—is a culture of radical acceptance. “You are loved. Come in as you are.” That’s beautiful. Butit also creates a space where individuals with deep psychological needs can be affirmed without ever being challenged or helped to heal.
If you are charismatic, if you preach well, if you’re good with kids, if you know how to perform leadership in that context—you get affirmed. And if you have an unaddressed need for ego validation, that culture can place you on a pedestal. That, in turn, can blur boundaries in unhealthy and dangerous ways.
So yes, it is partly about the culture. Perhaps even the culture of acceptance—ironically—can enable these situations. Andyes, many people bring unresolved baggage into ministry roles. If the institution lacks structures for accountability, mentoring, psychological evaluation, and ongoing support, those deeper issues can remain unaddressed.
Jacobsen: So would you say that certain cultural conditions—like unconditional acceptance and an overemphasis on trust—can make it easier for boundary violations to occur?
Lentz: Yes, I think that’s a fair and essential point. The very virtues we value—like grace, compassion, forgiveness, and trust—can become vulnerabilities if rigorous structures for accountability and healthy boundaries do not accompany them. Let me reiterate something clearly, though: I have never heard of a denomination or theological tradition that says it is acceptable to abuse children. That is off the table—always. It would be a strange—and horrifying—thing to hear anyone suggest otherwise. I want to be clear on that.
It is interesting, though, because we do know of some cults where the charismatic pastor or leader—sometimes under the garb of Christianity—claims that to experience true spiritual oneness, one must engage in sex with others. That kind of thing does happen.
Jacobsen: Yes, and it happens in India too—with gurus or spiritual leaders (‘godmen’) claiming divine authority over others, including sexually. But in mainline denominations—traditional churches—anything that has structure and accountability mechanisms meant to transcend the charisma of a single leader, that kind of exploitation is much less likely.
Still, your point is well-taken. I do think that love, inclusion, and acceptance—even the powerful idea that you can be forgiven—are all beautiful and essential aspects of the Christian faith. But they can also create openings in the safety net. And when those openings go unchecked, that’s where danger can creep in.
One of the biggest attractions—and arguably one of the greatest strengths—of the Christian tradition, speaking now as someone not deeply embedded in it, is that it offers hope and meaning to people who are wounded. And let’s be honest—most people are traumatized at some point in their lives.
I walk into almost any setting, assuming that a significant portion of people are essentially “the walking wounded.” Christianity speaks to that. It offers not only a theological answer—through Christian humanism or existential theology—but also a practical framework: continuity, grace, meaning, and healing.
Lentz: There’s a famous, influential book from about 50 years ago by Father Henri Nouwen called The Wounded Healer. His central message was that it is through understanding and embracing our woundedness that we can truly reach out and help others. That idea has been powerful for many. But you can also see how it might inadvertently encourage a culture where emotional pain is romanticized or where red flags get overlooked in the name of compassion. I want to be careful in how I say this, but yes—it can create gaps in the safety net.
Jacobsen: Here are some key statistics that provide a sobering backdrop:
- According to the John Jay Report in the U.S., covering 1950 to 2002, 4% of Roman Catholic priests and deacons were found to have substantiated allegations of abuse.
- The Australian Royal Commission (1950–2010) reported that 7% of priests had substantiated allegations.
- In Germany, the MHG Study (1946–2014) found that 4.4% of clergy accused of abuse.
- In New Zealand, research by the Royal Commission found that 14% of diocesan clergy had been accused, covering both minors and adults.
- Between 1950 and 2022, the Diocese of Worcester recorded 209 total allegations, of which 173 were deemed credible, 28 unsubstantiated, and eight false or withdrawn.
- A 2024 independent report found at least 1,259 clergy offenders in the EKD, although no percentage was provided.
That’s a sobering overview. The Anglican data is somewhat inconsistent, so let us refer to the 2024 Australian Child Maltreatment Study (ACMS). The 2023–24 Australian Child Maltreatment Study reports that 0.4 % of Australians aged 16–24 experienced clergy-perpetrated sexual abuse before age 18.. These cases occurred in religious settings. This suggests a more stringent and specific definition of sexual abuse compared to other studies, likely resulting in a lower prevalence rate.
This brings us to a more nuanced and complex issue: false or malicious reporting. These are extremely sensitive topics. False reports do happen, but research shows they are rare. Meta-analyses place false allegations of sexual violence between roughly 2 % and 10 % of all reports, consistent across multiple jurisdictions.
I was once invited to speak at a Croatian Christian conference as a humanist and journalist. In my presentation, I emphasized that false beliefs and false accusations—though real—must be viewed in the context of a broader, evidence-based response. These elements should not become a distraction from addressing the actual harm.
Jacobsen: Our focus should be on truth-telling and accountability. However, this is not a simple binary issue. There is a complex spectrum of responsibility—individual, institutional, and communal. These cases exist within an overlapping set of ethical and organizational dynamics that need systemic reform. That’s an important contextual point.
Even in situations where confirmed abuse rates are relatively low, there remains the ethical concern: What percentage of other clergy knew about abuse and failed to act? That question speaks to institutional complicity and moral responsibility.
We are examining concentric circles of accountability, including peers at the same hierarchical level (other priests) and superiors (bishops and archbishops), who may have had the authority to intervene but failed to do so.
Additionally, there are members of the laity—individuals in the community who were not directly harmed but knew victims and made excuses for the Church. This dynamic also contributes to a culture of silence and denial.
Understanding this fully requires expert legal and psychological analysis. Some legal scholars and advocates for survivors have been pioneers in this area. So, yes, there is a silver lining—if we acknowledge that the majority of clergy (likely 85–95%) have not committed abuse and may support reform efforts. Many do not want to be unjustly associated with those who committed crimes. It is critical not to tarnish all clergy with the same brush.
That said, there has always been a small segment of the secular community that engages in broad, often reactionary anti-church rhetoric, especially online. This was particularly visible in the mid-2000s to early 2010s. However, we should avoid reactionary cycles. The cultural pendulum may swing, but our moral response should remain clear, proportionate, and grounded in facts.
The more constructive approach is reform—dealing with the actual numbers and then conducting a realistic assessment, working from there. What are your thoughts?
Lentz: You put it well. I concur and support that.
What we clergy have to be careful of is that while it is true that roughly 95% of clergy are good, ethical people who never commit abuse, it can still sound like we’re defending or covering something up. So, we need to be cautious with that framing. But your point is well taken, and it goes back to something I was trying to say earlier.
Silence is not an option. Cover-up is not an option. Transferring the accused is not an option. In theory, this should be straightforward: take every allegation seriously, follow the process, do not cover it up, and do not transfer the accused; instead, involve the legal system when necessary.
Jacobsen: I wonder if the percentage of abusive clergy is comparable to the percentage of people who commit crimes more broadly—such as shoplifting or fraud—or even how, under the Trump administration, there was this narrative that immigrants are more likely to commit crimes.
Lentz: Yet we know from data that immigrants, on average, are more law-abiding than native-born citizens. Therefore, percentages and numbers can be skewed or manipulated. But yes, what you described is essential.
Jacobsen: So, after doing these long-form interviews, a different context emerges. We want to deal with the reality that approximately 95% of clergy, give or take, are not involved in abuse. However, over time, a significant portion of allegations are eventually substantiated when examined in aggregate across multiple institutions and cases.
The standard institutional response, at least historically, has been for clergy and laity to defend the institution. Just look at some of the major scandals. If you’re going to believe someone—well, the odds are, statistically speaking, about 1 in 20 cases may be false or malicious. That’s still uncomfortable, but the presence of false allegations does not justify ignoring the 19 out of 20 that are valid. That’s why we need a robust reform process to deal with both realities.
We require independent verification and investigation conducted externally to the Church. The pattern in some denominations has often been to let the Church investigate itself—which is problematic. What you pointed out earlier—the avoidance, the cover-up, the rotating of offenders—is precisely what should not happen.
Another key pillar is examining the enabling networks—those within the institution that facilitate abuse through silence, complicity, or willful ignorance. That’s where people like Amos Guiora have focused: on both clergy and laity who enabled the abuse. We need to ensure this is embedded in larger cultural conversations. Because this does not only happen in the Church—it’s part of broader human, institutional behaviour.
But the reason it’s so crucial in this particular context is because it’s happening in institutions that claim moral authority. Religious institutions operate under a specific guise that’s supposed to be distinct—providing ethical and spiritual guidance. So, they have a different kind of social power. Accountability must reflect that.
When I interview people from different religious backgrounds, they often equate being spiritual with being moral. That is typically what they mean: “I get my values, meaning, and guidance from religion.” So why not leverage that ethical framework to be leading lights in this area—for the good of the broader culture?
Lentz: Absolutely.
Jacobsen: The other question—though it may take longer to research—is more scientific in nature. For instance, some researchers are looking at long-term dysregulation in people who have been affected by abuse. The direction of the research is pointing toward the physiological and psychological consequences of early trauma.
So, trauma becomes embedded in the brain—at the level of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis—which governs stress response and shapes physiology. It restructures the brain over time. Minor stressors can trigger significant reactions, and this cumulative wear begins to degrade both cognitive function and emotional regulation.
A colleague is doing some fascinating work. She wants to examine cadaver brains of trauma survivors—women soldiers, for instance—to study the long-term physiological changes caused by trauma. So, the scientific question will probably require long-term research: What is the extent of physiological damage to those who have experienced childhood or clergy-related abuse, especially if the trauma was a singular but profound event?
That’s an important direction for the research. There’s also one last narrative point to make before I get to two questions—if I can remember them. The narrative point is this: We must acknowledge the reality of victimization without reinforcing an identity of permanent victimhood. People should not be excused from personal responsibility because they were harmed—but at the same time, we must recognize that real harm occurred. The goal is to help individuals transition from a survivor mindset to a thriver mindset on their terms.
Lentz: Have you come across any research on the commonly held belief that abusers were themselves abused? I wonder how many clergy abusers have histories of having been abused.
Jacobsen: That’s a good question. Yes, there is research suggesting that while not all abusers were abused, those who were abused are statistically more likely to become abusers themselves than the general population. It’s not deterministic—it’s probabilistic.
Similarly, those who were victimized are also more likely to be revictimized. This is sometimes referred to in the literature as the cycle of abuse or victimization vulnerability, mainly if trauma is not addressed early. So these are related but distinct dynamics—two poles of a larger pattern.
Have there been cases where clergy perpetrators have come forward and confessed? As in: “Yes, I did this. I need help. I accept the consequences. I want to repent, reform, restore, and make amends.” Are there examples of perpetrators living by their stated moral code and seeking true forgiveness?
Lentz: There have been a few rare cases where clergy abusers confessed publicly or privately. Some have written letters, others have made statements in court or to investigators. But genuine contrition, including willingness to accept prison time, make restitution, and seek treatment, is exceedingly rare.
Most cases involve either denial, minimization, or legal evasion. Unfortunately, moral failure is often compounded by institutional protectionism and legal maneuvering. Still, I believe stories of repentance do exist—they are not the norm. What about those abusing clergy who are preconditioned to abuse?
Jacobsen: That aligns with patterns we’ve seen in other forms of crime. Let me offer an analogy. Some people commit impulse-driven crimes, such as kleptomania or arson. They steal or burn things compulsively—it’s part of a psychological compulsion they cannot easily resist. In such cases, the individuals often admit to their behaviour and seek help, especially when the crimes are nonviolent.
On the opposite end, there have been serial killers who, after being caught—or even voluntarily—have said things like, “Use my brain for research.” They understand they are a danger and want to contribute something afterward. They might say, “I couldn’t stop myself. Please study me.” That’s a darker but more revealing example of self-awareness in pathology.
In both examples, there’s at least some recognition of harm and a desire—however delayed—to prevent future damage. In the context of clergy abuse, even a small number of authentic confessions could potentially lead to new models of accountability and healing if they were part of a public, restorative process.
They find that, in some cases, individuals who committed violent crimes had tumours so large that they were pressing against the frontal cortex. So, the parts of the brain responsible for impulse control, judgment, and emotional regulation were compromised.
The emotional dysregulation can be profound. In at least some of those cases, postmortem examinations showed clear physical causes—tumours disrupting neural networks. The structure of the brain had been altered, which likely contributed to the individual’s behavioural issues. And some of those individuals, before dying, even requested, “Please examine my brain after death—I can’t stop myself, and I want you to understand why.”
That fits with the foundations of early psychological and neurological studies. One of the classic cases is Phineas Gage, the 19th-century railroad worker who survived an iron rod piercing through his skull. It destroyed much of his frontal lobe, and afterward, his personality changed dramatically. He went from being responsible and mild-mannered to impulsive and irritable. Those close to him described him as a completely different person.
Gage’s case was one of the earliest pieces of evidence that personality, self-control, and ethical behaviour are rooted in the brain’s physical structure—particularly the frontal lobes. This links neuroscience and psychology with the development of moral behaviour. Some people, due to trauma or brain abnormalities, may be neurologically predisposed to violence or antisocial behaviour.
But we have to be careful. That kind of explanation is meant to illuminate, not excuse. It helps us understand certain behaviours, but it should not diminish the fact that crimes have victims—and every crime has a perpetrator. There is still moral and legal responsibility.
That is a critical distinction. And it’s worth noting that clergy, like members of the military, operate under a kind of dual legal structure. They are subject to both internal ecclesiastical processes and civilian law. In this way, they are not above the law but instead embedded in institutional systems that often shield them from full accountability.
Lentz: That makes sense. Your insights into brain science help frame this more precisely. Without knowing those details, I’ve often felt conflicted—because while we should never excuse criminal acts, I don’t believe we should blame the Church for creating abusers or pedophiles.
The Church doesn’t create them, but it may attract or fail to filter out individuals who are already predisposed due to psychological, neurological, or even traumatic histories. The Church often promotes a message of love, acceptance, and forgiveness, which, while good, can also be exploited.
Jacobsen: The responsibility lies in creating strict, transparent protocols that screen for risk, set clear boundaries, and respond swiftly when abuse is suspected. So, while we cannot blame the Church for the existence of abusers, we can hold it accountable for institutional cover-up, failure to act, and patterns of enabling.
Lentz: Even if we did everything right, some people would still come into the Church and do terrible things. But we must be held accountable for what we can control—oversight, response, transparency, and justice.
Jacobsen: Critics will respond quite rightly that the institution bears responsibility, especially when denominational structures contribute to abuse concealment. For example, the Roman Catholic Church is organized hierarchically—pyramidal and vertical—and in many documented cases, cover-up orders were issued from the highest levels, including the Vatican.
The Catholic Church is a clear case of top-down accountability. That’s different from the Eastern Orthodox Church, which also has a vertical structure but allows for more regional autonomy. And it’s different again from most Protestant denominations, which often have decentralized, more lateral networks.
So institutional structure plays a critical role—not just in how abuse happens, but in how it’s managed—or mismanaged—the Presbyterian or Congregational traditions, for example. My Dutch grandfather could have been ordained if he had chosen to do so when he came to Canada. He was a devout man.
That’s why there are so many variables at play. This is a sensitive and emotionally charged issue. Any topic with such emotional weight demands a multivariable approach. Many conversations are happening simultaneously, involving multiple parties—survivors, congregants, clergy, critics, and institutional defenders.
Lentz: Some people will say, “The Church is the story of my life.” I’ve heard that personally. I get that. I would never disabuse a survivor of their feelings or dismiss the violence they experienced at the hands of someone who was supposed to be a trusted priest or pastor.
The way you’re framing it is helpful—these are complex, overlapping layers of experience and responsibility. Abuse and cover-up intersect with dynamics found throughout our culture: in schools, businesses, the film industry, religious life, athletics—all of them.
Jacobsen: Yes—and what would be interesting is asking: What is particular about the Church, or church culture, that allows this to happen in such specific ways? The vertical hierarchy is undoubtedly part of it.
Lentz: Yes. I also believe that the status and spiritual authority granted to pastors and priests play a critical role. That reverence can sometimes shield misconduct. Add to that a culture of naïveté, paired with values like acceptance, forgiveness, and unconditional love, and it can become a toxic mix—especially without clear systems of accountability. Historically, we’ve had no consistent accountability process in the Church until the last 50 years—and arguably not until the last 25 years has there been any substantial institutional shift. That’s a long time—25 years out of centuries.
Jacobsen: That said, are pioneering denominations that are helping drive institutional reform? On the secular side, there also needs to be a different tone and a more nuanced analysis. The way some critiques have landed over the past 15 years hasn’t always been productive.
Lentz: Agreed.
Jacobsen: The sharpest secular critiques—many of which are online—are often disconnected from institutional reality. There’s a kind of rhetorical recoil that isn’t landing with clergy or even many congregants. And that weakens the reform effort.
Lenz: That’s an interesting point.
Lentz: Scott, you’ve probably already done this, but I do think denominations like the Presbyterian Church (USA) and the United Church of Christ (UCC) have at least verbally and procedurally taken this seriously. It’s in the Book of Order, it’s in process manuals, and it’s now a standard requirement to have sexual misconduct policies at every level of the Church.
I know this is true for the Presbyterians. I suspect it’s also true for the UCC, Methodists, and likely the Episcopalians. It would be worthwhile to research the specific reforms that different denominations have implemented over the last 30 years. [Ed. Under PC(USA) Book of Order G-3.0106, every council ‘shall adopt and implement a sexual misconduct policy and a child and youth protection policy.’]
Jacobsen: I do think there’s a tendency to bash the Church as if nothing has changed and there has been only cover-up and denial. That’s neither accurate nor fair. It certainly doesn’t advance the conversation.
The real question is: What is the goal? If it’s reform, then we need to focus on the institutions that have made progress and build from there. Constant condemnation doesn’t create a path forward. What does continuous criticism achieve if it’s not fair? What is the practical politics of your aim?
If the aim is justice and reform, then we need to be precise. We know there are clear cases where abuse and cover-up were institutionally embedded. But treating all churches and all denominations as identical is not helpful. That flattens the nuance and erases differences in structure, governance, and response.
A more constructive path respects the freedom of religion and speech enjoyed by both clergy and laity, domestically and internationally. If you’re going to critique the Church, make the case targeted. If you want to help, target your approach to engage that particular community. Say clearly: “Here is the reality as we currently know it, based on the evidence—and we will not speculate beyond the facts.”
Once that’s done, we can use that foundation as the basis for reform. Over time, more data and expert insights will be gathered. This enables the development of a reliable database for comparing how different denominations have handled abuse allegations. Of course, errors will occur in early efforts—but that’s part of building a transparent record.
For example, when you look at reported abuse rates across denominations—sometimes ranging from 4% to 14%—that’s a wide margin. It might be beyond typical statistical error, which raises the question: What’s contributing to 14% versus 4%? Why the difference?
Ideally, we want the number to be zero. So, how do we reduce that 14% to 5%, then to zero? That is a reform roadmap. But here’s the thing—we’re often not asking broader cultural questions about how to get to zero across society, not just in the Church.
It’s unfair to assume that only one denomination—the Roman Catholic Church—is responsible. Yes, we can always identify specific hierarchical structures that exacerbated the issue. But it’s not exclusive to Catholicism.
Lentz: One more thing: this should have been said earlier. There’s a tendency among Protestants, especially in the Presbyterian tradition—which I know well—to treat this as a “Catholic problem.” And that’s a problem in itself.
That mindset is a form of denial. When I write or speak about this issue, I always make a point to say: This is not just a Roman Catholic problem. Sure, their hierarchy may exacerbate specific dynamics. Still, the issue of sexual abuse by clergy is present across all faith traditions.
Do you find instances of sexual abuse in Jewish communities?
Jacobsen: Yes, though it can be challenging to get a clear picture because some of the reports are anecdotal or poorly substantiated. Still, from what I’m told by people I trust, the issue does exist. It tends to be more prevalent in closed or insular communities, such as certain ultra-Orthodox sects. That makes sense—the more enclosed the community, the more opportunity there is for abuse to remain hidden. A rural Presbyterian church can be just as closed-off in its way—serving a town of 1,500, where everyone knows each other and goes to the same Church for spiritual sustenance.
It’s the spiritual authority of the leader, the structure, and the theological grounding in sacred texts that create the possibility. Often, these structures are patriarchal, and that adds another layer. So, no—it’s not that abuse is inevitable. However, the structural conditions can increase the likelihood and certainly complicate accountability. This is not an anomaly-based phenomenon; rather, it is a pattern observed across various faith traditions, denominations, and cultures.
Lentz: Listen, I’ve got to run, but what a privilege to talk to you, Scott.
Jacobsen: Likewise—thank you.
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Scott Douglas Jacobsen is the publisher of In-Sight Publishing (ISBN: 978-1-0692343) and Editor-in-Chief of In-