I’m sure, like me, when you walk into an old church you feel something. Sometimes it’s a change in the air, sometimes a distinctive smell, and often a sudden shift in temperature.

Sometimes—if you are lucky—you get that feeling. A feeling hard to describe, but one that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You know you are somewhere special.

You realise, perhaps without yet understanding why, that you have stepped into a sacred space.

Is it the altar, the stained glass, the worn stones, or the candles that let you know? Or is it perhaps the presence of prayer? Like mortar in the walls, these prayers have become part of the very fabric. Prayer layered upon prayer, century after century. It is tangible. Can we feel it?

John Pritchard, in his book How to Pray, puts it like this: “Some places have acquired the adjective sacred.”

They haven’t been declared sacred by decree or policy—they’ve become sacred through faithful use, by holding the hopes and hurts of generations. And the longer a space has been held like that, the more it seems to hold you.

In a world where we’re increasingly told that “church can be anywhere,” there’s a quiet but vital counterpoint to be made: yes, it can. But there is something irreplaceable about a place that has been shaped by worship over centuries. A place that remembers.

Church Anywhere, But Also Here

The New Testament assures us that God does not live in temples made by human hands. Many today are rediscovering church in community halls, school gyms, cafes, or even online. These fresh expressions of church are vital. They remind us that God is not confined by architecture or postcode.

Yet I often hear old churches spoken of as redundant relics. And while they may be relics, they are not redundant.

I like to think of them instead as containers: containers of thousands of human stories—whispered in prayers, declared aloud at the altar or the baptismal font, or shared over tea and cake.

Sacred space is not about bricks and mortar. It is about meaning made material.

A church is not holy because it is old. It is holy because it has been used—faithfully, tearfully, joyfully, and persistently over time.
Sometimes, I wonder if we pray things into life.

A Theology of Place

Place has always mattered to God’s people. Jacob wakes from a dream in Genesis and says, “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.” He names the place Bethel—House of God. The Israelites carried the Ark of the Covenant through the wilderness, and later built the Temple in Jerusalem. These were not just buildings; they were touchpoints of divine encounter.

Christianity has always held a tension between God’s presence being everywhere and God’s presence being somewhere. Celtic spirituality speaks of thin places—those locations where the veil between heaven and earth seems almost translucent. Cathedrals and chapels, ancient churches and quiet corners, can become those places for us.

And the longer they are used, the thinner the veil seems to grow.

History as Worship

My own church has been used for worship for nearly a thousand years. It has seen plague, war, fire, reformation, and revival. It has hosted weddings and funerals. Its stones have heard laughter and liturgy, confession and silence. The building itself feels like a witness.

There’s something deeply moving about standing in the same spot where someone prayed during the Black Death, or sang psalms during the Reformation, or laid flowers after a local tragedy.

When we pray in these places, perhaps we do not pray alone. Perhaps, just maybe, we pray with the souls of countless others before us.

Time itself becomes part of the liturgy.

Architecture as Devotion

Old churches were not built for comfort. They were built to draw the eye—and the heart—upward.
Spires stretch into the sky, arches lift our gaze, reminding us of our smallness and God’s enormity. These buildings preach, even when empty.

The stained glass told stories to those who couldn’t read. The carvings—sometimes humorous, sometimes ornate, sometimes terrifying—made people feel things.
And the witches’ marks and knight graffiti remind us that, across the centuries, human beings have not changed all that much.

The Psychology of Sacred Space

There’s something deeply human at work in these places.

We are creatures of ritual, memory, and association.
Just as we feel comfort in a grandparent’s chair or a childhood park, we also feel held by a church that has held generations before us.

This isn’t sentimentality. It is a kind of rootedness.
In a fast-changing world, where everything feels temporary, these buildings offer continuity. They remind us we’re part of something larger, longer, deeper.

We don’t just go to old churches to remember the past. We go to remember who we are.

Why It Still Matters

As churches become more multi-purpose and mission-shaped, we must be careful not to lose the unique gift of sacred space.

These ancient buildings are not obstacles to the gospel—they are its witnesses. They have something to offer a restless world.

Yes, a church can be anywhere. But something happens when it is somewhere for a very long time. That somewhere begins to carry the sacred.

We are not only inheritors of these places. We are their stewards. What we do in them now shapes what they will carry for those who come after us.

They should not become museums of a long-forgotten past, nor merely coffee shops wearing the thin clothes of church.
They are places of encounter.

The Silence That Speaks

There is a particular silence in an ancient church—one I have yet to find elsewhere. Even when empty, these places feel full.

Full of prayers offered and unanswered.
Full of presence.
Full of God.
Full of an energy that is difficult to explain, but undeniable to feel.

These places don’t just house history. They house holiness.

When someone steps inside—perhaps burdened, hurried, or numb—the building embraces them. It helps them breathe a little deeper, feel a little lighter, remember a little more of who they are.

As someone recently said to me, “This place has healed me.”
I looked at her, smiled, and said, “And you don’t even believe in God.”
She smiled back.
And that’s fine.
She didn’t need to believe.
God didn’t care.
And neither did the building.
It embraced her anyway.

This article was written by Sarah Newton and reflects her opinion on this matter. Other opinions within the church and the wider Church of England may differ.