Anglican Order Shattered: First Female Archbishop Sparks Global Revolt

Paul Riverbank, 1/30/2026First female Archbishop ignites global Anglican turmoil, exposing deep divides and abuse cover-up crises.

The ceremony itself ticked along as centuries of Anglican tradition dictate, dignity laced with ritual. But midway, the procedure snagged: a priest, voice measured, intoned the long-standing phrase about the absence of objections. Before it could quite settle, Father Paul Williamson, a familiar figure to those tracking church disputes, stood and objected—his voice cutting past the hush. “I did,” he declared, echoing his own protests at previous milestones for women in the church. This time, as on others, vergers intervened. The interruption, swift though it was, didn’t surprise anyone who remembered Williamson’s record. In years gone by, he told television cameras that a bishop ought to inspire all, but in his view, that role was reserved for men.

Mullally’s elevation did more than ignite debate in England. Far away, it landed sourly among conservatives in the global South. Leaders with GAFCON and Nigeria’s Church described the choice as a breach, even a calamity—evidence of what they see as England’s ever-widening theological drift. These splits, of course, trace deeper fault lines than just gender. Battles over the soul and direction of Anglicanism have played out for decades—only, today, these are now amplified by fierce rows over how the church handles internal wrongdoing.

Safeguarding, once a behind-the-scenes concern, now sits at the center of the Anglican storm. Justin Welby, Mullally’s predecessor, resigned amid accusations of mishandling major abuse cases. Yet Mullally arrives with her own shadows. As Bishop of London, she was accused of failing to appropriately respond after Father Allan Griffin’s death. Griffin, wrongly accused of child abuse, died by suicide. Though an internal review cleared Mullally, the incident left a residue of distrust. It seemed to reinforce, for some, the worry that investigations are sometimes more about protecting senior ranks than rooting out the truth.

None of this plays out in isolation. The Church recently faced renewed scrutiny over its handling of David Tudor—a priest who, despite his conviction (eventually overturned on legal grounds), went on to serve as an area dean. As late as the 2010s, even after alarm bells rang, senior leaders including Stephen Cottrell (now Archbishop of York) kept him in ministry. Survivors, like Debbie—a woman whose patience with the institutional machinery appears long spent—expressed their dismay openly. The message from last year’s tribunal came as a stinging rebuke: senior leaders, if anything, had shielded each other from consequence, passing off responsibility with a few lines in a report.

That pattern recurred disturbingly often. For example, when Mullally dismissed a complaint against Cottrell, citing legal advice, the Church’s tribunal president later deemed her decision “plainly wrong.” Procedures designed to ensure accountability, survivors argue, often end up placing bishops in judgment over peers who operate beside them week in, week out. Yet when the roles reversed—in another safeguarding review earlier this month—Cottrell’s inquiry found no fault with Mullally.

Peeling back further, it’s hard not to sense the frustration building among those who say, year after year, the Church’s public pledges for transparency rarely match the private outcomes. The Diocese of St Albans, picking up pieces from allegations tied to the Soul Survivor movement, has now called for anyone with knowledge of “spiritual, psychological, sexual or physical abuse” to come forward. In their own words, the Church claims to want to know where things fell short and to offer help—though there’s a weary recognition from many that such statements are, by now, familiar.

Ultimately, what should have been a celebration of progress—a woman, finally, leading the Anglican Communion—has instead become a mirror for the Church’s contradictions. The dating of old wounds, and the surfacing of new ones, have come to overshadow ceremony and hope. The smoke from the candles at St Paul’s has barely lifted, but outside those ancient walls, questions hang heavier than ever: Whose pain matters? Whose voices find a hearing? And who, among those in robes and authority, will finally be held to account?

On an overcast morning inside the vaulting nave of St Paul’s Cathedral, anticipation filled the air, though it mingled with a certain nervous hush—the kind that often precedes a turning point. Among the gathered clergy and congregants, some faces registered awe, others a harder-to-place apprehension. The day marked something unprecedented: Dame Sarah Mullally—once England’s chief nurse—stood poised to be confirmed as the first female Archbishop of Canterbury. Across the Communion, a ripple of both hope and discomfort ran wide.The ceremony itself ticked along as centuries of Anglican tradition dictate, dignity laced with ritual. But midway, the procedure snagged: a priest, voice measured, intoned the long-standing phrase about the absence of objections. Before it could quite settle, Father Paul Williamson, a familiar figure to those tracking church disputes, stood and objected—his voice cutting past the hush. “I did,” he declared, echoing his own protests at previous milestones for women in the church. This time, as on others, vergers intervened. The interruption, swift though it was, didn’t surprise anyone who remembered Williamson’s record. In years gone by, he told television cameras that a bishop ought to inspire all, but in his view, that role was reserved for men.Mullally’s elevation did more than ignite debate in England. Far away, it landed sourly among conservatives in the global South. Leaders with GAFCON and Nigeria’s Church described the choice as a breach, even a calamity—evidence of what they see as England’s ever-widening theological drift. These splits, of course, trace deeper fault lines than just gender. Battles over the soul and direction of Anglicanism have played out for decades—only, today, these are now amplified by fierce rows over how the church handles internal wrongdoing.Safeguarding, once a behind-the-scenes concern, now sits at the center of the Anglican storm. Justin Welby, Mullally’s predecessor, resigned amid accusations of mishandling major abuse cases. Yet Mullally arrives with her own shadows. As Bishop of London, she was accused of failing to appropriately respond after Father Allan Griffin’s death. Griffin, wrongly accused of child abuse, died by suicide. Though an internal review cleared Mullally, the incident left a residue of distrust. It seemed to reinforce, for some, the worry that investigations are sometimes more about protecting senior ranks than rooting out the truth.None of this plays out in isolation. The Church recently faced renewed scrutiny over its handling of David Tudor—a priest who, despite his conviction (eventually overturned on legal grounds), went on to serve as an area dean. As late as the 2010s, even after alarm bells rang, senior leaders including Stephen Cottrell (now Archbishop of York) kept him in ministry. Survivors, like Debbie—a woman whose patience with the institutional machinery appears long spent—expressed their dismay openly. The message from last year’s tribunal came as a stinging rebuke: senior leaders, if anything, had shielded each other from consequence, passing off responsibility with a few lines in a report.That pattern recurred disturbingly often. For example, when Mullally dismissed a complaint against Cottrell, citing legal advice, the Church’s tribunal president later deemed her decision “plainly wrong.” Procedures designed to ensure accountability, survivors argue, often end up placing bishops in judgment over peers who operate beside them week in, week out. Yet when the roles reversed—in another safeguarding review earlier this month—Cottrell’s inquiry found no fault with Mullally.Peeling back further, it’s hard not to sense the frustration building among those who say, year after year, the Church’s public pledges for transparency rarely match the private outcomes. The Diocese of St Albans, picking up pieces from allegations tied to the Soul Survivor movement, has now called for anyone with knowledge of “spiritual, psychological, sexual or physical abuse” to come forward. In their own words, the Church claims to want to know where things fell short and to offer help—though there’s a weary recognition from many that such statements are, by now, familiar.Ultimately, what should have been a celebration of progress—a woman, finally, leading the Anglican Communion—has instead become a mirror for the Church’s contradictions. The dating of old wounds, and the surfacing of new ones, have come to overshadow ceremony and hope. The smoke from the candles at St Paul’s has barely lifted, but outside those ancient walls, questions hang heavier than ever: Whose pain matters? Whose voices find a hearing? And who, among those in robes and authority, will finally be held to account?