In Cambridge city centre, you are never more than 500 metres from a church. If you include chapels, then you are never more than 300 metres away. Such a large concentration of churches in such a small area raises questions over their use: how many people attend a church in Cambridge? What attracts people to these institutions?

There is good reason for asking these questions. Earlier this year, it was announced that weekly attendance at Church of England services had fallen below one million people for the first time: the media duly responded with reports of a crisis within Anglicanism. Each secular milestone is the consequence of a long-term but apparently interminable decline in church membership across Britain. In 1930, 30 per cent of the British population were members of a church – of any denomination. In 2010, the figure was 10.3 per cent and, according to the latest Church Statistics survey, membership is projected to fall to 8.4 per cent by 2025. Last year, a report pointed out that more than a quarter of churches have fewer than 20 people in a Sunday morning congregation. This negative news cycle echo chamber has all the acoustic quality of those empty church halls.

An equally gloomy prognosis has been offered for the health of the church buildings themselves. There are now over 900 churches on English Heritage’s “At Risk” register, which highlights historic buildings in poor state of repair. There are no easy financial solutions: the bills for maintaining Britain’s architectural heritage are huge. For some, notably the journalist and conservationist Simon Jenkins, the only solution is to give Britain’s struggling churches away to local trusts and communities, as desanctified buildings and assets. Almost exactly a year ago, Jenkins declared dramatically in The Guardian that “England’s churches can survive, but the religion will have to go.”

Against this background of national decline and media alarm, Cambridge demonstratively bucks the trend. On average, 4.7 per cent of the English population attend Church.  In Cambridge, the Chaplain of Christ’s College told me that up to 10 per cent of the population can be found in a church on Sunday mornings. The Cambridge mission is growing, too: a friend who attends City Church Cambridge told me that the organisation has recently renovated its building in order to accommodate its expanding congregation.

This vibrancy and resilience is largely due to the unique Christian heritage attached to Cambridge and the University. History has bequeathed 39 churches to the city and the surrounding area, meaning that Cambridge has churches to cater to all Christian denominations, from Baptist to United Reformed. There is no shortage of clergy to serve them, either: Cambridge has one of the highest numbers of resident clergy (per capita) in the country. Equally, the clerical tradition of the University has always been strong, and remains so. Since Cranmer, the University has produced 18 Archbishops of Canterbury, including the last two. Within the colleges themselves, chapels can create Christian communities on a small scale and engage those who would otherwise not attend any form of worship. The number of students attending Evensong services is a case in point. Before the last Christ’s College Evensong, I asked two students – one a Methodist, the other an atheist – about their reasons for going and received identical replies: “because it’s nice.”

Although that answer may seem banal, its reveals something profound about our contemporary relationship with churches. We are increasingly drawn to the aesthetic and sensory appeal of churches and chapels. The buildings themselves are beautiful. Cambridge has an abundance of architectural riches, from the glorious fan vault of King’s College to the panel tracery in the windows of perpendicular chapels. The stained glass and choral music only add to the effect. We also see Britain’s churches, and especially its cathedrals, as historic microcosms. They are filled with the physical tokens of our past: tombs, plaques, carvings and gilt. Their defaced statues and charred walls tell us of conflict and war; their extensions and architectural adjuncts tell us of prosperity and growing populations. The names on headstones give us the names of families who moulded Britain as we see it today. Some of Cambridge’s churches have the added authority of being ancient. St Bene’t’s, for example, is approaching its millennium celebration, having been founded in 1033. The city’s churches often have surprising significance, too. It is well-known that all undergraduates must live within three miles of the Church of St Mary the Great. It is less well known that the same church is the origin of the famous Big Ben bell chimes.

Cambridge’s ecclesiastical history and culture is unique. The fact that the enduring image of the University is a chapel, albeit a very grand one, indicates its association with the Church. More importantly, the curious mixture of secular, historical and religious interests which we vest in our churches might even suggest a way to salvage those which are increasingly empty, decrepit, or both. Only by attracting the secular interest of the local community in these historic buildings can we hope to equally preserve their religious functions. It may be a hopeful dream, but it is a dream which separates the image of churches as relics from the image of church renewal.