The First Woman Archbishop of Canterbury: A Triumph of Symbol over Substance

Downing Street has confirmed the appointment of Dame Sarah Mullally as the 106th Archbishop of Canterbury, the first woman ever to hold the post. The Prime Minister’s office, with the consent of King Charles, has framed the choice as a “historic moment” for the national Church. Yet for conservative observers, this appointment is less a victory than the culmination of decades of decline. The Church of England, once the spiritual foundation of the nation, now appears committed not to restoration of faith but to accommodation with the spirit of the age.

The aftermath of women’s ordination and the Decade of Evangelism
When General Synod approved the ordination of women in 1992, implemented from 1994, the decision was hailed as a step of renewal. Instead, it produced one of the largest clerical defections in modern Christian history. At least 430 priests resigned and claimed compensation immediately after the vote, while contemporary reports suggested up to 1,000 threatened to leave.¹ Alongside them, thousands of laity crossed the Tiber, and hundreds of parishes fractured. The Decade of Evangelism (1990–2000), intended to re-evangelise England, proved a failure, with attendance falling rather than rising. Those who remained often did so in “impaired communion,” refusing to recognise the sacramental validity of women’s orders. Thus the Church’s very structures were left internally divided, a symptom of its inability to resolve the tensions born of progressivist innovation.

The Ordinariate and the continuing exodus
The exodus did not end in the 1990s. When Pope Benedict XVI established the Ordinariate of Our Lady of Walsingham in 2011, another wave of clergy and laity departed. By the first Easter, around 60 clergy and nearly a thousand laity had entered, rising to over 80 clergy in the early years, with later tallies reaching nearly 100 priests.² The Ordinariate did not invent dissent — it gave a home to those already alienated by what they saw as a church surrendering to cultural trends.

Decline despite progressive innovation
In the decades since, the pattern has been clear. Despite “fresh expressions,” “messy church,” and countless managerial experiments, attendance has continued to fall. By 2022 the median congregation numbered just 37; average weekly attendance had fallen from 34 to 25 per community.³ Between 2019 and 2023, average Sunday attendance dropped by nearly 20 %.⁴ One observer in The Guardian noted that over four years the Church had lost 169,000 weekly worshippers.⁵

This collapse is not despite progressivism, but alongside it. Every policy shift in the name of “inclusion” — ordaining women, consecrating women bishops, adopting progressive sexual ethics, embracing “diversity” strategies — has been hailed as the reform that would save the Church. Instead, membership dwindled further. The public does not turn to the Church of England for a mirror of its own fashions; it once turned to it for a word from God. By abandoning clarity in doctrine for slogans of inclusion, the Church has exchanged substance for symbolism. Christian Research projected Sunday attendance could fall below 88,000 by 2050, while Lord Carey warned already in 2013 that the Church was “one generation from extinction.”⁶ The Revd Professor Martyn Percy, no conservative firebrand, has himself concluded that extinction may come by the 2060s.⁷

Safeguarding and a credibility deficit
Overlaying the numerical decline is the moral wound of safeguarding failures. The catalogue of scandal is long. The John Smyth affair revealed a culture of cover-up and institutional inertia that left dozens of young men abused for decades while Church leaders turned away. A 253-page independent report in 2024 called Smyth’s abuse an “existential crisis” for the Church of England, documenting how senior figures were warned and failed to act.⁸

No less shocking was the case of Bishop Peter Ball, the former Bishop of Gloucester, who admitted sexual abuse of young men and was imprisoned in 2015. Ball’s crimes had been known and covered up for decades. The Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse (IICSA) found that senior church leaders, including Archbishop George Carey, colluded in protecting Ball, enabling him to return to ministry despite serious allegations.⁹ The case exemplified the Church’s instinct to protect its reputation and senior figures rather than the vulnerable.

At the same time, the Church has shown itself capable of the opposite travesty: treating false accusations with credulous haste and destroying reputations without due process. Nowhere is this clearer than in the case of Bishop George Bell of Chichester. A revered figure who opposed Nazi tyranny and defended the innocent, Bell was posthumously accused of abuse in 2015. The Church of England immediately issued an apology, paid compensation, and tarnished his name — before proper investigation. Subsequent independent reviews, including those led by Lord Carlile of Berriew QC, found that the Church had acted unjustly, failed to test the evidence, and denied natural justice to the dead.¹⁰ Though the accusation collapsed, the Church has never fully restored Bell’s reputation. The travesty has become a byword for an institution capable of simultaneously covering up real abuse while rushing to condemn the innocent in order to appear “tough” on safeguarding.

Dame Sarah Mullally’s record in London does not inspire confidence that this culture will change. While she has not been directly accused of cover-up, her episcopal tenure did not mark decisive reform. Rhetoric about “safe spaces” rings hollow when the Church has neither protected the vulnerable nor defended the innocent. In such a climate, trust cannot be rebuilt by committees and training modules. It requires the one thing the Church has resisted: transparent accountability and fidelity to truth.

The Calvin Robinson affair
Perhaps more telling for the culture of the institution is the case of Calvin Robinson. Robinson, a conservative ordinand of mixed-race heritage, alleges that Mullally blocked his ordination because of his theological and political views. She is reported to have lectured him on institutional racism, presuming to instruct him on an experience he denied was universal.¹¹ Robinson left the Church of England, was ordained in the Free Church of England, and the affair has since become emblematic of ideological policing. The episode illustrates how “inclusion” in practice has meant exclusion of those who dissent from progressive dogma.

The fragmentation of the Anglican Communion
The appointment’s implications extend beyond England. The Archbishop of Canterbury is not only Primate of All England but also a symbolic focus for worldwide Anglicanism. That fragile Communion has long been strained. Provinces in Africa and Asia, hosting the majority of Anglicans, have repeatedly declared impaired or broken communion with liberal provinces over theology, sexuality, and ecclesial order. The 2003 consecration of Gene Robinson as Bishop of New Hampshire opened a rupture; GAFCON (Global Anglican Future Conference) emerged as a parallel centre of authority. Lambeth Conferences no longer function as effective instruments of unity: delegations refuse to attend, walk out in protest, or treat the proceedings as empty ceremony.

Until now, Canterbury retained symbolic authority — the archbishop was seen, however tenuously, as first among equals. But naming a woman as Archbishop doubles down on the liberal trajectory. For GAFCON-aligned provinces that reject women’s orders as contrary to apostolic order, this signals not merely change — departure. The rupture may now be irreversible.

This dynamic is already illustrated by the reaction to the appointment of Cherry Vann as Archbishop of Wales in July 2025 — the first woman and first openly gay primate in the UK. Her election provoked sharp backlash from conservative Christian groups. Christian Concern openly condemned it as “tragic,” accusing her of rejecting biblical teaching.¹² GAFCON described the appointment as “another painful nail in the coffin of Anglican orthodoxy.”¹³ The Church in Wales declined to comment on criticisms of her sexuality.¹⁴ The Archbishop of Nigeria went further, declaring: “We do not recognise the so-called Archbishop of Wales … and cannot share communion with a church that has departed from the teachings of the Bible.”⁵

Such statements are not mere rhetoric but institutional severance. They show that what is called “the Anglican Communion” is already a patchwork of parallel jurisdictions. In North America, the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA) functions as an alternative to the Episcopal Church. In Africa, GAFCON-aligned provinces operate independently of Canterbury. With Mullally likely to uphold the same trajectory of inclusion, these fractures will only deepen. The Communion may not “break” in a single moment, but splinter gradually into compartments: liberal Western provinces on one side, orthodox Global South provinces on the other. Canterbury may soon preside over a body that no longer sees itself bound to her leadership — or assumes she leads a Communion many no longer recognise.

The symbolism of decline
Mullally’s defenders point to her distinguished career as a nurse and as Chief Nursing Officer for England, and her administrative competence as Bishop of London. Yet the primacy of Canterbury is not a managerial post. It is meant to be prophetic, apostolic, and pastoral. The line of Augustine, Anselm, and Becket is not that of civil servants, but of confessors and defenders of the truth.

In reality, Dame Sally is the establishment’s real-life equivalent of the amiable but fictional Revd Geraldine Granger of The Vicar of Dibley. She is no theologian, no trailblazer, no innovator. She embodies the comfortable, genial face of an institution that has made peace with its own decline. Her winsome personality may endear her to the media and political class, but it will not stem the tide of secularisation, nor will it prevent the inevitable schism in the Anglican Communion that her appointment will hasten.

The trajectory since women’s ordination is unambiguous: defections, decline, safeguarding scandal, ideological policing, and global fracture. Progressivism, far from saving the Church, has deepened its wounds. To appoint a woman Archbishop is hailed as progress, but in reality it is the triumph of symbol over substance. It mirrors the demands of the culture rather than calling the culture to conversion. If the Church of England is to survive another generation, it will not be through further accommodation but through fidelity to Christ. Without repentance and a return to apostolic truth, the predictions of Carey and Percy may yet prove true: extinction within our lifetimes.

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¹ Religion Media Centre, “25 years of women as priests in the Church of England” (2019); UPI report, “1,000 priests threaten to quit” (1992).
² National Catholic Reporter (2011); Ordinariate OOLW statements (2012); Anglican Ink reports, 2020–2024.
³ Church of England, Statistics for Mission (2022).
⁴ Church Mouse Blog, “Latest CofE Statistics” (2025).
⁵ Harriet Sherwood, The Guardian, 24 Oct 2024.
⁶ Christian Research projections (2008); George Carey, remarks reported by Washington Post (2013).
⁷ Martyn Percy, Prospect, 2022.
⁸ Guardian, “John Smyth abuse report triggers existential crisis in Church of England,” Nov 2024.
⁹ IICSA, Anglican Church Case Studies: Peter Ball, 2019.
¹⁰ Lord Carlile of Berriew QC, Independent Review of the Church of England’s Handling of the Allegations Concerning George Bell, 2017.
¹¹ Calvin Robinson, Anglican Ink (23 May 2022); Wikipedia, “Calvin Robinson.”
¹² Newsweek, “Gay Archbishop’s Appointment Criticized by Christian Group,” Jul 2025.
¹³ Premier Christian News, “Church in Wales remains silent amid criticism over new Archbishop’s sexuality,” Aug 2025.
¹⁴ The Guardian, “UK’s first female archbishop tells of how she hid her sexuality for decades,” Aug 2025.
¹⁵ The Times, “Church of Nigeria severs ties with Wales,” Aug 2025.