Canterbury Without Faith: Defensor Fidei and the Hollowing of Christian England
The installation of Dame Sarah Mullally as Archbishop of Canterbury today forces into the open a question that can no longer be deferred: what, in fact, does the Church of England now stand for—and what remains of the claim to defend “the Faith” in any meaningful, public, and apostolic sense?
The See of Canterbury is not a neutral office. It is rooted in the mission of Augustine of Canterbury, sent by Pope Gregory the Great in 597 to evangelise the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and to establish a Church in England in visible, juridical, and sacramental communion with the Apostolic See.¹ That mission was not merely pastoral but structural: Augustine was consecrated bishop, endowed with authority, and charged to organise a hierarchy, establish dioceses, and ensure the faithful transmission of doctrine and sacramental life.² The See of Canterbury therefore emerges not as a cultural development, but as an extension of apostolic Christianity into these isles.³
That continuity was never merely ceremonial. It consisted in doctrine, sacrament, and authority—received, guarded, and handed on.⁴ It was expressed in the unity of faith with Rome, the integrity of sacramental orders, and the submission of ecclesial authority to divine revelation rather than political expediency.⁵
That continuity was ruptured in the sixteenth century under Henry VIII of England through a series of legislative acts—notably the Act of Supremacy (1534)—which subordinated the Church in England to the Crown and severed juridical communion with Rome.⁶ This was followed under Edward VI of England by substantial alterations to the rites of ordination in the 1552 Ordinal, changes which directly impacted the theological understanding of the priesthood itself.⁷ These developments were later examined in detail by Pope Leo XIII in Apostolicae Curae (1896), which concluded:
“Ordinationes anglicanae… omnino irritas et prorsus nullas esse declaramus.”⁸
(“We pronounce and declare that Anglican ordinations are absolutely null and utterly void.”)
But what is now evident is not simply the continuation of that rupture—it is its expansion into something further removed still: a body that no longer clearly claims continuity even with the wider historic consensus of apostolic Christianity.⁹ The ordination of women to the episcopate, formally authorised in 2014, represents a departure from the universal and uninterrupted practice of the Church East and West.¹⁰
The forms remain—cathedral, throne, vesture, succession—but increasingly as symbols detached from the realities they once signified.¹¹ The Chair of St Augustine is still occupied; the rites of enthronement are still performed; the language of episcopal continuity is still invoked.¹² Yet these now function, in large measure, as historical artefacts—preserved in outward appearance while their theological content has been substantially reinterpreted.¹³
What is enacted is not continuity, but its appearance.
This is why the witness of Thomas Becket presses so heavily upon the present moment. Becket, Archbishop from 1162 until his martyrdom in 1170, resisted the attempts of Henry II of England to subordinate the Church to royal authority, particularly in matters of clerical jurisdiction.¹⁴ His refusal culminated in his murder within Canterbury Cathedral—an event that reverberated across Christendom and established Canterbury as a centre of pilgrimage and witness.¹⁵
Becket did not die to preserve an institution’s outward form, but to defend the integrity of the Church’s divine constitution.¹⁶ His martyrdom stands as a permanent contradiction of any ecclesial posture that seeks legitimacy through accommodation rather than fidelity.¹⁷
What would he recognise in this?
It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that he would see not continuity, but displacement: the retention of form, the loss of substance.
A Legal Office, Not an Apostolic Reality
The installation of Sarah Mullally highlights a fundamental distinction: she is Archbishop in law—recognised by the state and seated among the Lords Spiritual¹⁸—but the historic office signified apostolic succession grounded in valid orders, doctrinal continuity, and communion with the universal Church¹⁹; where these are absent or contested, the title functions as a legal fiction, preserving institutional form while lacking the theological substance once affirmed, a rupture identified in Pope Leo XIII’s Apostolicae Curae²⁰, such that whether this office corresponds to what Augustine of Canterbury or Thomas Becket would recognise remains unresolved²¹.
And this is no longer a purely theological concern. It is now a constitutional and legislative one.
The Church of England retains a unique position within the state. Twenty-six bishops sit as Lords Spiritual in the House of Lords, including the Archbishops of Canterbury and York and twenty-four diocesan bishops by seniority.²² This arrangement reflects the historic establishment of the Church and its role in providing moral and spiritual counsel within the legislative process.²³ It is predicated on the assumption that the Church speaks with a coherent moral voice grounded in Christian doctrine.²⁴
Yet recent legislative developments—particularly those that erode long-standing moral protections and reshape the legal understanding of fundamental questions relating to life, dignity, and moral responsibility—have proceeded with little meaningful resistance from those very bishops.²⁵ Debates have been engaged, statements issued, but there has been no sustained, unified, or authoritative opposition commensurate with the gravity of the issues at stake.²⁶
This is not a secondary failure. It is decisive.
For if a national Church retains constitutional privilege but does not exercise it in defence of fundamental moral principles, it does not remain neutral. It becomes implicated in their removal.²⁷ Silence, hesitation, or fragmentation in such circumstances function not as prudence, but as acquiescence.²⁸
The contradiction is therefore stark:
A Church that claims moral authority,
a legislature in which it is formally represented,
a series of laws reshaping the moral order,
and no proportionate ecclesial resistance.
This exposes not merely institutional weakness, but the loss of a defined moral and doctrinal centre.²⁹
And it is here that the title Defensor Fidei must be confronted.
Originally conferred upon Henry VIII of England by Pope Leo X in 1521 for his defence of the sacraments,³⁰ the title signified the defence of a definite, received faith—the depositum fidei.³¹ The coronation oath continues to bind the monarch to uphold the Protestant Reformed Religion established by law and to maintain the rights and privileges of the Church of England.³²
But what does that mean when doctrinal clarity is absent?
If doctrine is treated as provisional,
if moral teaching is subject to revision,
if the Church does not clearly articulate what it believes—
then the title becomes unintelligible.
One cannot defend what is not defined.
One cannot guard what is continually reinterpreted.
The presence of Prince William at such ceremonies, especially amid ongoing public discussion of his faith and future role as Supreme Governor of the Church of England, only sharpens the point.³³ His participation reflects constitutional continuity and personal duty, yet it also highlights the increasing distance between form and substance.³⁴
For what, precisely, is he expected to defend?
If the Church itself cannot provide a clear answer, then the Crown’s role risks becoming purely symbolic—a gesture of support for an institution whose theological content is increasingly indeterminate.³⁵ The historic tension between Crown and Church—so evident in the conflict between Becket and Henry II—has given way not to resolution, but to convergence.³⁶
The result is a system sustained by mutual performance: the Church offers cultural respectability; the Crown offers symbolic continuity; neither clearly articulates the faith being upheld.³⁷
Yet there is a further dissonance—one that would have been entirely unintelligible to both Augustine of Canterbury and Thomas Becket.
That is the presence of a representative of the Holy See at such a moment.
For Augustine, Canterbury existed precisely as an extension of Roman mission—its authority derived from communion with the Apostolic See.³⁸ For Becket, that same communion was worth defending against royal encroachment at the cost of his life.³⁹ In both cases, the relationship between Canterbury and Rome was not symbolic or diplomatic. It was constitutive of the Church’s very identity.⁴⁰
What, then, are we to make of a situation in which that communion is absent in reality, denied in sacramental theology, yet echoed in ceremonial presence?
To Augustine, it would appear incoherent.
To Becket, it would appear compromised.
The modern framework of ecumenical engagement, particularly following the developments of the twentieth century, has normalised such gestures as expressions of goodwill and dialogue.⁴¹ Yet when such gestures occur in contexts where fundamental theological divergences remain unresolved, they risk creating not clarity, but confusion.⁴²
This is not a question of courtesy or diplomacy. It is a question of truth.
When gestures obscure reality, they cease to be signs of charity and become sources of ambiguity.
And so the installation, taken as a whole, reveals a convergence of deeper problems:
A Church retaining form without clear doctrine.
A constitutional role without substantive witness.
A monarchy tasked with defending an undefined faith.
A legislature reshaping moral law without proportionate ecclesial resistance.
And ecumenical gestures that risk blurring rather than clarifying the nature of the Church itself.
This is why the moment feels not merely controversial, but dissonant.
The structures of Christian England remain.
The ceremonies continue.
The titles endure.
But the faith they were built to embody is no longer clearly professed within them.
And so the question stands, with increasing urgency:
What does the Church of England stand for?
What does it mean to be Defensor Fidei?
Until those questions are answered with clarity—in doctrine, in law, and in public witness—what is being preserved is not the faith itself, but its outward form, maintained even as its substance quietly dissolves.
¹ Bede, Ecclesiastical History, I.23–25.
² Mayr-Harting, Coming of Christianity, pp. 57–65.
³ Bede, I.25.
⁴ St Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, III.3.1–2.
⁵ Vatican I, Dei Filius, ch. 4.
⁶ Act of Supremacy (1534).
⁷ Ordinal (1552).
⁸ Apostolicae Curae §36.
⁹ Congar, Tradition and Traditions.
¹⁰ Church of England Measure (2014).
¹¹ Duffy, Stripping of the Altars.
¹² Church of England Canons.
¹³ McGrath, Christianity’s Dangerous Idea.
¹⁴ Edward Grim, Rolls Series.
¹⁵ Duggan, Thomas Becket.
¹⁶ Catechism of the Catholic Church §1577.
¹⁷ Aquinas, ST II-II q.104.
¹⁸ UK Parliament, Lords Spiritual.
¹⁹ Irenaeus, III.3.
²⁰ Apostolicae Curae.
²¹ Bede; Duggan.
²² UK Parliament briefing.
²³ Ibid.
²⁴ Hooker, Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity.
²⁵ Hansard debates (2025–26).
²⁶ Ibid.
²⁷ Aquinas, ST I-II q.96 a.4.
²⁸ Burke, Reflections.
²⁹ MacIntyre, After Virtue.
³⁰ Leo X, Fidei Defensor.
³¹ Council of Trent, Session IV.
³² Coronation Oath Act (1688).
³³ UK Royal Household.
³⁴ Ibid.
³⁵ Bagehot, English Constitution.
³⁶ Duggan.
³⁷ Constitutional commentary.
³⁸ Bede, I.25.
³⁹ Grim; Duggan.
⁴⁰ Vatican I, Pastor Aeternus.
⁴¹ Vatican II, Unitatis Redintegratio.
⁴² CDF, Dominus Iesus (2000).
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