I don’t know Greek or Latin. I don’t want to know them. As for religion, where I grew up, the Westboro Baptist Church would’ve been a serious upgrade from the lunacy most people took seriously. So if you want a theologically literate critique of the new Archbishop of Canterbury, you can read Sebastian Wang’s essay.

Sebastian is upset that Sarah Mullally doesn’t have a penis. I won’t argue with him, though I find his phallic theology hard to distinguish from satire. I’m not interested in apostolic succession or whether some woman in robes counts as a “real bishop.” The point is not that Sarah Mullally is unqualified because she’s a woman. The point is that she is unqualified, full stop—and that the people who appointed her knew it and wanted it that way.

Let’s go through her credentials. She went to a comprehensive school—that’s the equivalent of a public school over here, the kind of place the authorities make you go when they’ve already written you off. She then studied nursing at South Bank Polytechnic, which is now called London South Bank University, though no amount of rebranding will turn it into a real university. She worked her way up through the NHS bureaucracy, and picked up a degree in “Healthcare Policy” along the way—i.e., she became a fluent speaker of managerial gobbledygook. Then, sometime in the late 1990s, she took a part-time ordination course.

This isn’t the background of a theologian or a pastor. It’s the CV of a part-time diversity officer. Mullally is a career functionary of the British administrative state—NHS nurse, NHS manager, part-time vicar. And now, she will sit on the throne once held by Anselm, by Thomas Beckett, by Stephen Langton, by Thomas Cranmer. It’s like appointing a traffic warden to head the Royal Academy.

It gets worse. “I have dyslexia,” she says, “so I hate the genealogies. If I have to read them out, the words run off the paper like paint.”

This isn’t an offhand joke. She genuinely finds reading the Bible difficult. Not interpreting it. Reading it. The incoming Archbishop of Canterbury has the scriptural fluency of a sixth grade student forced to read aloud in class. And she’s proud of it. Now, there’s no rule that an Archbishop must be able to recite the Psalms in Greek. But is it too much to ask that she can read them in English without breaking into a sweat?

This is where the standard explanations fail. Some will say it’s just the usual story: the left’s “long march through the institutions.” Others will point to the elite strategy of co-opting traditional institutions and turning them into ideological mouthpieces. That’s all true—as far as it goes. But those explanations don’t tell you why they picked her. If the goal was to advance progressive theology, they could have found a brilliant progressive. Surely the Church of England could cough up one articulate, camera-ready, theologically literate, Chinese lesbian priest with academic credentials and a talent for spin—someone who could leave Sebastian opening and closing his mouth while searching for a counter-argument from St Augustine.

Instead, they picked Sarah Mullally—a woman who looks like she wandered out of an HR seminar on “inclusive practice,” and whose sermons sound like NHS press releases. She is not the best they could find. She is the worst they could get away with. And that is not a mistake. That is the message.

This is not about inspiring trust in the Church. It’s about making the Church laughable. The selection of Mullally is an act of ritual humiliation. It is the symbolic destruction of the last official remnants of Britain’s cultural and spiritual identity. They are not content to infiltrate the institution—the leftists want to make it repulsive. They want the public to see her in the pulpit and feel a wave of contempt, to forget that the office ever meant anything, to associate the memory of the Church with embarrassment and managerial tedium.

And it’s working. The Anglican churches in Africa—the only part of the communion that still takes Christianity seriously—have already rejected her appointment. They didn’t even bother to veil their contempt. They’ve had enough. For years, they’ve been scolded by English bishops for being insufficiently “inclusive,” for holding onto the actual doctrines of the religion they believe in. And now, the mother church has appointed someone who is per se unsuitable to head their church.

Back in Britain, any remaining faithful will head for the door. The ones who still believe anything at all will go to Rome, or to Moscow, or to some basement congregation that still opens the 1662 prayer book. The rest—the progressive remnant—will sit in echoing cathedrals, blinking slowly while Mullally talks about “community resilience” and “shared listening journeys.”

Some will say this is simply the logical outcome of a long decline. But decline implies something passive. This is intentional. This is an act of desecration, pursued with the precision of a demolition team. They are not trying to use the Church of England—they are trying to erase it. They don’t want to modernize it. They want to make it so utterly embarrassing that it taints the memory of everything it once was.

That’s why they didn’t appoint a competent progressive. Competence is dangerous—it reminds people of what authority used to look like. Instead, they chose a dyslexic, middle-aged mediocrity who mumbles about Amos like she’s describing a parking dispute. She is there to make the institution shameful. She is there to degrade it.

Marian Halcombe complains that the British monarchy has declined—but at least there, the degeneracy is unavoidable. Monarchs have to come from a specific family, and its quality has been dropping since Queen Victoria croaked. There’s nothing to be done if the royal family is now a zoo of idiots and open sex perverts. The Archbishop of Canterbury, on the other hand, is appointed. Out of tens of thousands of eligible clergy, the Church’s selectors chose Sarah Mullally. And by doing so, they made their intention clear. They are not saving the Church. They are demolishing it.

And not quietly, either. They want you to see the corpse. They want you to watch it be wheeled around, dressed in the robes of its former glory, presiding over empty ceremonies with hollow words. They want the past to stink. They want the memory of Cranmer, of Langton, of Anselm to be swallowed in farce.

This is what happens to every British institution now. They are not transformed. They are not repurposed. They are defaced. The BBC is a parody of news. Oxford is a clearinghouse for race ideology. The National Trust lectures you on empire guilt while charging you to walk through damp stately homes. Every institution once associated with dignity is now being turned into a clown act.   The purpose is to abolish the past as a going concern and clear the way for a New World Order tyranny.

The Church of England has been leading the race to the cliff for two generations. Now it has jumped off. Sarah Mullally is not a compromise. She is not a neutral choice. She is not even a sincere believer promoted beyond her competence. She is a deliberate insult. She is the embodiment of bureaucratic mediocrity, selected precisely to mock the office she holds.

She is what the regime wants you to see when you think of the Church: not holiness, not history, not continuity—but failure and boredom. She is not there to lead. She is not there to preach. She is there to smirk at the ruins.

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