James Taylor, the C of E's answer to the credit-card rosary

IT DIDN'T go terribly well, did it? Sincere, befuddled middle- aged men on Newsnight. Day after day of earnest discussion about whether God approves of men going to bed together. Nigerian bishops becoming involved in street brawls with members of the pink party. Doctrinally, the Lambeth Conference may have been a hit, but out here in the real world it was nothing but an embarrassment.

But then the real world has probably always been the problem. Developing a clonking five-minute metaphor on Thought for the Day or comforting a nation in grief, bishops are in their element. Confronted by the everyday - kids, relationships, the new ladettes - suddenly they seem as endearing but pointless as a character in a second-rate Fifties film.

Yet, as the fog of millennial angst and moral panic descends, the competition among those offering the way, the truth and the light has never been more intense. Last week the Roman Catholic church unveiled a new style of rosary for the Christian in a hurry. Shaped like a credit card, this neat spiritual aid will contain embossed points corresponding to the traditional beads, so the busy worshipper will be able to knock off the odd Hail Mary or contemplate the Stations of the Cross while sitting in a traffic jam or queuing at the check-out. Divine PIN numbers to facilitate individualised entry to the Kingdom of Heaven are said to be under urgent consideration.

It's particularly unfortunate that the Church of England is caught in its presentational quagmire while, all around, our great institutions have suddenly become all cutting-edge and on message. For example, the Labour Party was not so long ago faced by similar problems - dowdy image, internal dissent, a tiresomely demanding belief system - but has managed to win souls by the simple expedient of dumping not only the doctrinaires but the doctrine as well. Now that politics has become a feely, vibe thing, we can go about our daily business believing in equality, niceness and the environment without having to make any awkward decisions that affect our daily life or earning-power.

Admittedly, Christian modernisers have gone some way to making the word more acceptable - conveniently blurring the concepts of God and Good, for example - but the problems remain. While the Government presents a perfectly balanced team, with the cosies (Dobson, Mowlam) on one side, the nasties (Mandelson, Campbell) on the other and the grinning, beatific supreme being between them, the Church has a disastrously blurred image.

So where will it find the key to modernisation, a homegrown version of the credit-card rosary?

Football may help. Once oafish, mud-spattered and violent, the game has been transformed into a sunny, middle-class enthusiasm for all the family. The fact that, by a divine stroke of good fortune, the disciples form an entire team with a substitute is surely a gift for the image-makers. What could be more amusing and natural than to accentuate the somewhat ill-defined image of Jesus's followers by reinventing them as celebrities in a celestial team, with Matthew and Mark as hard-working overlapping wing-backs, John as the mercurial playmaker and good old Peter as the big, lion-hearted striker in the number nine shirt?

For younger religious consumers not won over by the football analogy, further changes might be introduced to the Book of Common Prayer to make it more accessible to those raised on soaps and sitcoms. Prayers deemed convoluted and lengthy could usefully be truncated into modern speech: "We have left undone those things which we ought to have done and we have blahdy blahdy blah." A similar updating of congregation responses into teenspeak - "Lord have mercy upon us," "Yeah, whatever" - might also be considered.

There remains the tricky question of the supreme leadership. While even the most daring marketing consultant would avoid changes to the basic hierarchy, the character of the Holy Ghost, always something of a shadowy figure, might usefully be developed. Fortunately the ideal candidate has already passed an audition, by playing the godhead with triumphant goofiness in Randy Newman's superb musical Faust. There are those who will object to the elevation of veteran singer-songwriter James Taylor, particularly in view of his American citizenship, but his presence would reassure traditionalists and ageing hippies. Who could doubt that this saintly man would be the perfect divine presence to take the Church of England into the next millennium?

Miles Kington is on holiday