You can also listen to the interview here.
This morning I gave an interview, and while waiting for it to come out, below is a summary of what I said.
People sometimes ask what the Anglican Church is really “about,” and how it ended up being its own thing. The quick version many of us have heard is: England wanted to get out from under the Pope’s authority, and Henry VIII wanted a divorce. There’s truth in that, but it’s not the whole story. Anglicanism didn’t begin as a clean theological break. It began as a messy mix of politics, power, tradition, and—eventually—real reform.
Yes, Henry VIII wanted to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon so he could marry Anne Boleyn. But he also wanted something European kings had been seeking for a long time: stronger control over the Church inside their own borders. Big powers like France and Spain had long negotiated rights to appoint bishops and shape church life. England hadn’t. When the Protestant Reformation spread across northern Europe, it created an opening for smaller nations and their rulers to claim those rights. That political moment mattered as much as the personal drama did.
Here’s the detail that surprises some people: Henry VIII stayed Catholic in belief right to the end of his life. So while England separated from Rome under him, worship didn’t suddenly become “Protestant” in the way people imagine today. The larger shift came after him. When his son Edward VI (still a child) became king, the reformers around him pushed a stronger Protestant agenda. Then Mary I—“Bloody Mary,” Catherine of Aragon’s daughter—reversed course and restored Roman Catholicism, and around 300 leading Protestants were martyred.
The shape of the Church of England as we recognize it today really took form under Elizabeth I. She wasn’t driven by a pure Protestant zeal, and like the rest of the Tudors she loved traditional worship—especially the music. But she was tired of religious persecution tearing the country apart. Her answer became known as the Elizabethan Settlement. The goal was simple in principle and complicated in practice: get people with different convictions to worship “under the same roof,” as long as they weren’t loyal to the papacy on one extreme, or radical revolutionaries on the other.
That decision created an Anglican habit that still defines us: we’re a broad umbrella church. Over time, that umbrella has held very different streams side by side. On one end you find “High Church” Anglicans who look and sound Catholic in almost everything but name. On another end you find evangelicals—people who want the Reformation taken further and who often feel the Church isn’t rigorous enough. And then there are liberals who are shaped by the Enlightenment and modern thought. Someone put it well: in Anglicanism you often find people trying to finish the work of the Reformation, the Counter-Reformation, or the Enlightenment—all in the same family.
That breadth is both the strength and the weakness of the Church of England. It tries to accommodate everybody, and sometimes it feels like it satisfies nobody. But it’s also part of what I’d call the Anglican spirit: a stubborn commitment to staying together, even with the tensions. In its best moments, it’s an attempt to listen for the Holy Spirit in the middle of disagreement rather than splitting at the first opportunity.
My own path into Anglicanism wasn’t a neat story either. My parents were totally secular. I was baptized as a formality, and then I went through English schools with a strong Church of England tradition. So for me it wasn’t “Anglicanism” as a brand—it was simply Christianity as I knew it. In my early 20s I left the church and, for the best part of 30 years, I dropped my faith. When I returned in 2009, I came back consciously as a Christian, not as someone trying to wave an Anglican flag.
Even now, as an Anglican pastor, I’m not trying to convert anyone to Anglicanism. To Christianity, yes. But Anglicanism is more like my emotional home. I’m grateful for it and comfortable in it, but I’m also aware that the Church is bigger than any one tradition. And, in a funny twist, one of the hallmarks of Anglican life is its musical heritage—yet I’m tone-deaf and can’t sing a note. The Church of England takes music seriously, and sometimes I wonder if I’m in the right place. Still, I love listening, and I love what music can do to open the heart.
Anglican worship has a “middle-of-the-road” feel in many places, especially where the congregation is a mix of backgrounds. But “middle-of-the-road” Anglican can still look quite Catholic to an outsider—robes, liturgy, set prayers, the rhythm of confession and absolution, the table, the responses. At the same time, we’re often very aware of not being Roman Catholic, especially in countries where Catholicism is the majority. I’ve seen this up close in Italy: in one church, a priest left a holy water stoop at the entrance, and as soon as he left it was ripped out as “too Catholic.” That kind of reaction tells you a lot about the identity tensions Anglicans live with.
I’ve also seen the opposite impulse: churches that say, “We don’t want to do anything that upsets the Roman Catholic Church.” Sometimes that becomes a reason to stay very conservative—on women’s ordination, on inclusion, on welcoming people with different sexualities. In a Catholic-majority context, being a small church can bring pressure, and it can also become an excuse. The result is that even within one country, Anglican churches can feel very different depending on their history and their leadership.
One of the clearest ways you feel the Reformation’s influence in Anglican life is preaching. Anglican sermons are often longer and more “worked through” than what you’ll usually hear in a Roman Catholic parish. They can be fairly intellectual and literary—though not always. A lot of us try to preach closely from the biblical texts, to do real exegesis, and not just aim for a quick emotional lift. In some Anglican calendars, there’s even a stronger expectation during the great seasons—Advent through Pentecost—that preaching will stay tied to the readings of the day.
At the Genoa church where I serve, we keep sermons to about ten minutes. That’s not because Scripture deserves less, but because you preach to the people in front of you. Our congregation includes many immigrants, and long sermons aren’t always helpful. The story of this church is one of the reasons it has my heart. Ten years ago, it was nearly closed—down to five people, mostly elderly expat ladies. Then, in 2016, many African immigrants arrived in Italy. A large number were stopped from crossing into France and settled in Liguria. Those five ladies did something beautiful: they helped people find flats, jobs, and support; they visited them in hospitals and prisons; they showed up again and again. Today we’re 40–50 people on a Sunday, and about 80% are West African. It’s a congregation that feels like a real piece of the gospel.
That gospel also shows up in the simple, steady work: giving out food and clothes on Wednesday mornings, and again on Sunday mornings before the service. Caring for the stranger, the foreigner, the poor—whatever denomination you claim, that’s the playbook. It’s not flashy, but it’s deeply Christian.
When people ask what Anglicans believe about the sacraments, you can see that same “big umbrella” pattern. Some Anglicans recognize only two sacraments in the strict sense—those instituted by Christ in the New Testament: baptism and Holy Communion. Others speak more like Catholics and hold to seven: baptism, communion, confession, marriage, ordination, confirmation, and so on. Historically, the Church of England has also given confirmation a high place, partly because infant baptism raises a fair question: babies can’t make vows for themselves. In the 19th century especially, confirmation was elevated and often happens later than in Catholic practice—around age 16.
Marriage is where today’s debates get hot, especially around same-sex couples. For years people asked the Church of England to allow same-sex marriages, and bishops repeatedly said no. In response, the Church launched what’s called the Living in Love and Faith (LLF) process—a wide conversation meant to happen across the whole church. Many parishes studied the material and spoke openly and honestly. The current compromise in the Church of England is that same-sex couples can be blessed, but only within a wider service so it doesn’t look like a wedding blessing. For my part, if we bless people’s homes, their pets, their cars, and their rings, why wouldn’t we bless friendships and committed couples who are seeking God’s help?
At the same time, I draw a distinction: I wouldn’t marry a same-sex couple, because I see Christian marriage as a particular vocation—like ordination is a particular vocation. If a doctor came to me and said, “Look, being a doctor, God has given me a calling to this. It’s really important for me, ordain me to being a doctor,” I would say, “Look, that’s fine. That’s great. I would bless your vocation, your sense of vocation. But ordination is for priests. It’s not for doctors.” And I would say that Christian marriage is for a heterosexual couple. You can bless many callings without confusing them with priestly ordination, and I see marriage similarly. On the deeper question of sin and sexuality, I don’t believe homosexuality is “from the devil.” It has always been part of human experience. Sexuality itself is a God-given gift, and precisely because it’s powerful and beautiful, it’s also an area where humans easily get things wrong. The call for all of us—heterosexual or homosexual—is holiness and righteousness in how we live through our bodies and our desires.
If there’s one place where Anglicans often sound both ancient and distinct, it’s Holy Communion. From the beginning, the Church of England has held to the real presence: communion is not only a mental reminder of what Jesus did. Somehow Christ meets us in the bread and wine. At the same time, Anglicanism rejected the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation (the idea that the bread and wine become, in essence, Christ’s flesh and blood). It also rejected pure memorialism (the idea that it’s only a symbolic memory). Richard Hooker, an Elizabethan theologian, captured what many Anglicans still feel: it’s a mystery, and mysteries can’t be reduced to neat explanations. You receive the gift more than you solve the formula.
In practice, Anglican communion can look very similar to a Catholic Mass—especially in churches that lean more “high.” Roman Catholic friends have told me, “Apart from the language, this is what we do.” And I often think: yes—but we’ve been doing it in English for five centuries. Anglican worship tries to give equal weight to Word and Table: Scripture and sermon on one side, communion on the other. Our modern liturgies (like Common Worship) also give flexibility and options, so parishes can adapt while keeping the structure that holds everything together.
That structure is one reason many people find Anglican worship deeply contemplative. It guides you step by step through confession, Scripture, prayer, peace, and the table. It involves the whole congregation through set responses. And the practical detail matters too: the pew sheet or booklet often includes the readings, prayers, and the shape of the service so you can follow along. When you’ve prayed these words for years, they start to live in you. You’re not just watching; you’re participating.
I’ll admit something else: I’m a bit of a closet Pentecostalist. I try to keep my windows open. I can pray the rosary and still appreciate a Pentecostal service when I get the chance. That might sound odd, but in a way it’s very Anglican: drawing from the riches of the wider Church, not to become vague, but to become more alive in faith.
This is also why ecumenism matters. Many Christians today are tired of fighting old wars. Outsiders look at Christianity and see a thousand fragments and ask, “Which one is the real one?” And honestly, that confusion is understandable. The divisions of the Reformation era have lasted so long that it can feel like descendants still arguing at the table over a fight their great-grandparents started. At some point, we have to say: enough. Make amends. Find what we hold in common in Christ, without pretending differences don’t exist.
In a strange way, Anglicanism can offer a key here. For five centuries, it has tried—sometimes clumsily, sometimes beautifully—to hold very different people together under one roof. It doesn’t always work. It can be frustrating. But it can also be a sign that unity is possible without uniformity. And in a world that feels more divided every year, that’s not a small witness.
If you want to read one book that captures this better than most, I’d point you to Michael Ramsey, former Archbishop of Canterbury. His book The Anglican Spirit is one of the few that really gets to the heart of what Anglicanism is trying to be: not perfect, not simple. But, at its best, it is a church that stays near the ancient faith while making room for real people—people who are still learning how to worship, how to serve, and how to follow Jesus, together.