On December 7, 2025, two very different stories about religion in Britain collided in the headlines: one about the rising tide of Paganism as a quietly popular spiritual path, and another about the complicated, often misunderstood role of Christianity—especially evangelical Christianity—in UK politics. Both stories, though seemingly worlds apart, reveal the shifting sands beneath Britain’s religious landscape in the post-Covid era, where tradition and innovation, nostalgia and novelty, faith and skepticism, all jostle for space.
Let’s start with the numbers. According to the 2021 Census, only 74,000 people in Britain openly identified as Pagan. That’s a drop in the ocean compared to the millions who still tick a Christian box or the many more who describe themselves as non-religious. But, as reported by The Observer, focusing on numbers alone misses the point. Paganism isn’t trying to win a numbers game. It’s a faith that doesn’t seek converts, doesn’t have a creed, and doesn’t even ask its adherents to show up anywhere at a set time. You simply become a Pagan by doing Pagan things—lighting a candle at the solstice, learning the names of the trees, or perhaps casting a spell you found on TikTok’s now-thriving “WitchTok.”
Neo-Paganism, as most people know it today, started in Britain in the 1940s. It was originally quite communal, emphasizing group rituals and shared initiation. But by the 1990s, a new wave—the "Hedge Witch" movement—advocated for self-initiation and solitary practice. This solitary approach has only grown with the internet. Now, thanks to online communities and social media, especially TikTok, anyone can learn, practice, and share Pagan rituals without ever joining a group. The result is a religion that is, as The Observer put it, “unorganised”—a faith that offers connection to the divine without the hassle of institutional obligations.
This lack of structure, some argue, is exactly why Paganism is so well-suited to post-Covid Britain. Traditional places of worship, from churches to voluntary associations, are struggling to recover from the pandemic’s blow to in-person participation. People still crave meaning, ritual, and a sense of belonging, but they’re less willing to sign up for the old model of weekly meetings, confessions, or membership dues. As The Observer noted, “archaic scriptures, pesky dogmas that require consistency, confessions of guilt and membership obligations all appear to be rather a big ask in the 21st century.” Strip those away, and Paganism is what’s left—a religion of doing, not believing.
What’s perhaps most surprising is how mainstream Pagan symbols have become. The Green Man, a figure rooted in Pagan mythology, appeared on invitations to King Charles III’s coronation. Even public figures who once identified as atheists, like Professor Alice Roberts, have hinted at being open to the “Pagan” label. Paganism, once seen as countercultural or even subversive, now attracts little of the hostility often directed at Christianity or Islam. It’s as if, by refusing to proselytize or demand anything from its followers, Paganism has slipped quietly into the role of “religion for the post-religious.”
Meanwhile, Christianity—particularly its evangelical branch—is navigating a much more visible and contentious place in British public life, especially in politics. At recent Reform UK press conferences, the near-white hair of Danny Kruger and the blond mane of James Orr stand out. Both are devout Christians, and both have become influential voices in shaping the party’s policy program. They also serve on the advisory board of the Alliance for Responsible Citizenship, a rightwing think tank with strong religious ties, including Conservative peer Philippa Stroud and hedge fund millionaire Paul Marshall, who owns GB News and The Spectator.
But is Britain heading for an American-style fusion of religion and rightwing politics? According to The Guardian, the answer is complicated. While Protestant evangelicalism is a cornerstone of US Republican politics, especially among Donald Trump’s supporters, British evangelicals are a much smaller group—about a tenth the size, proportionally, of their US counterparts. And their political loyalties are far more varied. A 2025 poll by the Evangelical Alliance, shared with The Guardian, found Labour leading among evangelicals with 26% support, followed by Reform UK and the Liberal Democrats at 20% each, the Conservatives at 18%, and the Greens at 12%.
Evangelicals in the UK do tend to hold conservative views on social issues such as abortion and assisted dying, but they also support more generous welfare payments. Danny Webster, the Evangelical Alliance’s head of advocacy, explained, “Sometimes with evangelicals there can be a dissonance between opinions, especially on social issues, and how people vote. For example, someone might have a strong opinion on abortion, but they don’t see voting as likely to lead to change. So the opinions on economic issues like poverty can win as social issues don’t have an outlet.”
Christianity in British politics is not a rightwing monopoly. Figures like Tim Farron, the former Liberal Democrat leader, and Labour MP Rachael Maskell, who lost the party whip for rebelling on welfare issues, integrate their faith with progressive causes. Maskell told The Guardian, “It’s part of our roots, how we think about inequality in society, making sure we have a just system that serves the people, as well as a just immigration system that keeps our border safe but recognises the dignity of people coming to the UK.”
Still, there is a newer, more American-flavored strain of religious nationalism emerging on the British far right. Groups like Turning Point and King’s Army have started to blend Christian rhetoric with anti-Islam and anti-migrant messaging. In October 2025, King’s Army marched through Soho, London’s LGBT hub, clad in branded black tracksuits—a dramatic if still fringe manifestation of Christian nationalism in the UK. Far-right agitator Tommy Robinson has also begun presenting himself as explicitly Christian, often in contrast to Islam.
Yet, as The Guardian points out, this remains a niche phenomenon. Friends of Paul Marshall insist he is “strongly opposed to Christian nationalism and any kind of politicisation of faith.” Even Danny Kruger, who once railed against “a mix of Marxism and narcissism and paganism, self-worship and nature-worship” in a speech to the National Conservatism conference, seems to see UK religious politics as more nostalgic than nationalistic. As one Christian MP put it, “For me, my faith is more a foundation for what I already believe. And here, religion is not really a vote winner.”
In a Britain where Paganism quietly thrives on the margins and Christianity debates its role in the public square, the future of faith looks less like a battle for dominance and more like a patchwork of personal choices, cultural symbols, and shifting alliances. Whether in the solitary rituals of new Pagans or the cross-party prayers of Christian MPs, British religion in 2025 is anything but simple. But perhaps, in its very complexity, it reflects the country’s evolving search for meaning in uncertain times.
