Religious Tourism in Scotland

We ambled up the cobbled Royal Mile to the drone of bagpipes and the laughter of tourists. A light rain — what the Scots affectionally call “liquid sunshine” — fell from leaden clouds. St. Giles’ Cathedral, really the heart of Scottish Christianity, loomed ahead in all of its gothic splendor. As we stepped through its ornate doorway, inside was a hub of activity. This was not the life of a busy parish church or even a worshiping cathedral, but a spectacle for those enchanted by stories of the Medieval world, or for those aficionados of the Harry Potter franchise.

My catholic heart was disoriented by the very rational reordering of the Reformation. The sanctuary and high altar were no longer in use and I found myself unmoored as I wandered around the cathedral, which is really not a cathedral in anything but name. In the center stands a white marble monolith. I asked the sexton, who busied himself with his work, if this was where Holy Communion was celebrated, and he said, “Everything happens in the center of the church on Sunday, and everyone faces the crossing.” He was referring to the way the chairs were all arranged in a circle around this central table, a lecture, and a pulpit. When once worshipers would have fixed their eyes on the high altar, now they are left to wander in empty space.

As we exited St. Giles’, we scanned the crowded tourist shops and vendors for some lunch.

I was in Scotland for a week of study leave, taking my yearly time away to focus on prayer and reading and writing, all while looking back over the past year of ministry. My wife, Amy, was able to join me, and while I huddled in the library reading and writing, she spent time exploring the many sights of Edinburgh.

Part of what drew me to Scotland was an interest in the Scottish Episcopal Church, this tiny province of the Anglican Communion that has persisted in the chilly shadow of Scottish Presbyterianism. I was interested in the history the church, with its ebbs and flows, keeping in view especially its outsized influence on the Episcopal Church here in America by way of the ordination of Samuel Seabury in Aberdeen by Scottish bishops.

But I was also interested in Anglicanism’s role in contemporary society in a country that is highly secularized, and even the historic and dominant Presbyterian Church of Scotland is in freefall. In a society that is increasingly indifferent to Christianity, I thought, maybe I might glimpse something of the future of the role the church in a place like North America.

What I found was that the visible vestiges of the gospel loom large, but they are crumbling quickly, and the lifeblood of the faith is hidden, sprouting up here and there without much notice.

On Sunday, we worshiped at St. Mary’s Episcopal Cathedral, the mother church of the Diocese of Edinburgh. The building was impressive and housed the hush of the sacred. I found it easy to pray in St. Mary’s, and later that week, while I walked its outdoor labyrinth planted in wildflowers. But this cavernous building was not ancient like St. Giles’ or the many other churches or ruins that dot the Scottish landscape. Rather, it was built in the late 19th century, and features the ideals of Victorian Gothic Revival, the style entwined with the theology and practice of the Anglo-Catholic movement.

It’s true that Anglicanism has deeper roots in Scotland, especially in the highlands, but it has vacillated between privilege and suppression throughout the centuries since the Reformation. There were times when Anglican priests were forbidden from celebrating the Eucharist for more than four people at a time, an odd precursor to some of the more heavy-handed restrictions imposed during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Whatever wealth and prayer and energy financed the building of St. Mary’s seemed to have dwindled down. As we worshiped with the 1982 Scottish liturgy, not wholly unfamiliar to me, I looked around to see about 100 mostly older folks scattered throughout the capacious nave. Still, we heard the Word of the Lord, and were nourished, all of us, by the body and blood of Christ.

That St. Mary’s still has a congregation, even if it’s a little flock, seems no small feat considering that many of the beautiful and historic churches in Edinburgh are no longer places of worship at all. Some have turned to pubs or galleries or theaters, but their imposing presence stands as a judgment and witness today. They are a judgment of the way the church has failed. All of the work and striving of Christians across the centuries have left but a heritage of stone. But these deconsecrated churches also serve as a witness to the faithfulness of the triune God and his gospel. This once was spread through the land like leaven, and love for this God inspired women and men to build temples for worship and praise.

Where did I see signs of life?

I wandered into St. John the Evangelist, just before a midday Mass. St. John’s is an Episcopal Church just off the busy Princes Street, an attractive shopping destination. I knelt and prayed before we began the simple spoken liturgy. A dozen or so of us gathered with an elderly priest. She offered prayers of anointing for healing after Holy Communion.

A tourist wandered in, not taking part in the service. I kept my eyes on her as she sat transfixed. I wondered if this was her first time hearing the gospel. Perhaps other wayfarers have wandered into services like this and have felt sparks of faith.

Taking a break from study at the New College Library, I wandered down to the National Gallery of Scotland for a coffee. On the way into the café, I saw some college students in matching shirts were handing out pamphlets in the square. I warded them off with a wave of my hand. “No thanks,” I said.

I went into the café nestled into the gallery. I ordered an Americano, which was served in a beautiful pottery mug. I took a seat in the corner and read while I sipped. After I drank my coffee, I returned the mug to the barista and schlepped my bag of books back onto the square.

The students were still at it. I tried to keep my head down, but one of them caught my eye and speed-walked over. “What do you think about abortion?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t think it’s a good thing,” I said.

He gave me the pitch about how he and his fellow students were raising awareness about Scotland’s abortion laws and were trying to advocate for pro-life legislation and better care for women.

I figured these young people must have been evangelicals of some sort. So I asked. “I assume you’re Christians?”

“Yeah, we’re all Catholics.”

I said, “I’ve been to a few churches while in town, and I’ve read some statistics. It seems that not many folks your age go to church. What’s kept you going?”

“Well, my parents have been good examples of what it means to be a Christian,” he said. Just then a girl walked over.

“This is my sister,” he said. “We’ve also got a really good priest too. There still aren’t a lot of us at Mass on Sunday, but we’ve found a community with the Catholic student ministries. That’s why most of us are here.”

I talked to him for a few more minutes before heading back to the library.

There are other vignettes I could recount, but the gist of all of them is this: Established Christianity is no longer a given in Scotland the way it must have felt decades ago. I am sure this is true in many places. And where the gospel persists it will be in small communities of worship, among families, student groups, friends.

My intuition is that one can never place high enough value on the influence of parents. For most of us, our families introduce us to the gospel and first model the way of Jesus.

And the church should never neglect the training and support for those entering ministry. Godly and faithful priests who are invested in discipling young people have an outsized effect on the future of the church.