The United Kingdom is a country divided against itself. On the one hand it is the tip of the spear of the global progressive movement, with strict adherence to net-zero policies, layers of diversity, equity, and inclusion bureaucrats, increasingly arduous labour laws, assisted suicide, and an obsession with Islamophobia. On the other hand, it is the progenitor of so many wonderful traditions. It is the country that originated modern parliamentary democracy, it has the world’s most famous monarchy, to me it has the highest density of wonderful historical architecture, and England even birthed the suit and tie.

This clash between modernity and tradition plays out in all aspects of British life now, but the area of fiercest symbolic contest is the Anglican Church.

At the heart of this contest is a growing revival of the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) in contrast with the modern administrative culture that has come to dominate much of the Church of England’s bureaucracy. The Book of Common Prayer is the historic liturgical text that has shaped Anglican worship for centuries. First authorised in 1549, then revised in later editions, most famously in 1662, the Book of Common Prayer remains prized for its poetic language, theological seriousness and moral clarity. It contains the central services of Morning and Evening Prayer, Holy Communion, the burial service, the marriage service and the Great Litany. It gives Anglican worship a settled rhythm rooted in scripture, repentance, and the drama of salvation.

The Litany itself is striking because it refuses to flatter the worshipper. It opens not with affirmation, self-expression, or identity language, but with the repeated plea, “Have mercy upon us miserable sinners.” It asks God to deliver His people “from all blindness of heart”, from “pride, vainglory, and hypocrisy”, and from “all the deceits of the world, the flesh, and the devil”. It even prays for deliverance from “fornication, and all other deadly sin”.

This is not the language of modern emotional management. It is the language of a church that believes human beings are fallen, that sin is real, that judgement matters, and that mercy must be sought rather than assumed.

The General Confession does the same thing. It says, “We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep,” and then admits that “we have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts”.

There is the entire modern problem in one sentence. A society that tells people to find truth inside themselves is answered by a prayer book that warns that the self is often precisely where error begins. The BCP’s genius is that it is not cruel about this. It does not humiliate the worshipper. It tells the truth in order to lead the worshipper toward grace.

Modern Leadership

Against this stands the modern Church of England leadership, now embodied in Sarah Mullally, the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Mullally is not without seriousness, and on assisted suicide she has taken a stronger line than many modern progressives would like. But her public language often reflects the managerial, therapeutic, and diversity-soaked culture that has made so many churches sound less like guardians of doctrine and more like public sector human resources departments.

When she was announced as Bishop of London in 2017, she described London as “multi-cultural and multi-faith” and “a city of energy and diversity”. She added, “London is open to all.” That may be harmless enough in a civic speech, but it is also the kind of language that can make the church sound like a mayoral diversity office rather than an institution charged with preaching about sin, repentance, and salvation.

The sharper contrast comes through the Church’s sexuality debates. During the 2023 debate over same-sex blessings, Mullally said, “This is a moment of hope for the Church.” She also said, “I know that what we have proposed as a way forward does not go nearly far enough for many but too far for others.”

That sentence captures the tone of the modern ecclesiastical bureaucracy almost perfectly. It is not the language of yes or no, sin or repentance, doctrine or error. It is the language of process, balance, managed disagreement, and institutional compromise.

Mullally also helped lead the Living in Love and Faith process, the Church of England’s long internal exercise on identity, sexuality, relationships, and marriage. The Church’s own Archbishop of Canterbury profile says that this process “saw the introduction of the Prayers of Love and Faith for same-sex couples”. In the same period, the bishops apologised for the Church’s treatment of LGBTQI people, with Mullally saying, “We together apologise for the pain, hostility, exclusion, and rejection” experienced within the Church. She added, “We realise this behaviour has not reflected the universal love of God for all people.”

Contrast

Set that beside the BCP and the difference becomes unmistakable. The prayer book asks to be delivered from “false doctrine, heresy, and schism,” and from “hardness of heart, and contempt of thy Word and Commandment”. The modern Church speaks of listening, walking together, inclusion, and different perspectives. The BCP assumes that the Church has received a deposit of faith that must be guarded. The modern bureaucracy often sounds as if the Church has inherited a stakeholder management problem that must be navigated.

This is why the revival of BCP worship matters. It is not merely nostalgia for old words, old buildings, or old music. It is a search for moral and spiritual weight in a world that has become weightless. Young people especially are surrounded by a culture that tells them to invent themselves, brand themselves, express themselves, and revise themselves whenever the mood changes.

The BCP offers the opposite. It tells them that they are not self-created, that their desires are not always trustworthy, that their sins are not imaginary, and that their lives are held within a drama far older and deeper than the politics of the present moment.

That is why traditional liturgy can feel strangely radical now. Modernity constantly demands novelty, relevance, and self-assertion. The BCP asks for humility, memory, and obedience. It does not pretend that life is easy, that the world is safe, or that the human heart is pure. It names plague, famine, battle, murder, sudden death, temptation, sin, and judgement.

But because it names them, it can also offer refuge from them. A church that will not speak honestly about the human condition cannot comfort people when that condition overwhelms them.

Great Mistake

The great error of many modern religious institutions is that they mistake political relevance for spiritual seriousness. They see a world obsessed with identity, sexuality, climate, equality law, and therapeutic language, and they assume that the church must echo those concerns in order to remain attractive. But the opposite is often true.

People do not need another institution repeating the language they already hear from universities, charities, corporations, and the state. They need an institution that can say something older, harder, truer, and more merciful.

The Book of Common Prayer endures because it offers people what modern life withholds. It gives order, humility, beauty, judgement, repentance, and hope. It reminds a restless society that freedom without moral formation becomes exhaustion, and that individuality without inheritance becomes loneliness.

Religion at its best is an escape from the troubles of modern life; it should be a sanctuary where the accumulated wisdom, morality, and tradition of thousands of years of devotion can be passed on to the next generation. That means keeping the door open to tradition rather than inviting in every passing breeze of contemporary ideology. The revival of the Book of Common Prayer shows that many, especially young people, are looking for exactly that: not a church that mirrors the anxieties of the modern world, but one that anchors them in something greater, steadier, and more enduring.