The Right Reverend John Tillotson, Archbishop of Canterbury 1691-1694

I often find myself reflecting on history during President’s Week.

Not only the bold acts.
Not only the names carved into marble.
But the quieter influences, the voices behind the voices.

This year, thanks to research by one of my sisters, I am reflecting on our eleventh great-grandfather, John Tillotson, Archbishop of Canterbury from 1691 to 1694.

He was known for his clear, rational, and moderate sermons. He favored what was called the “plain style” — clarity over ornament, reason over flourish, depth over drama. His words were accessible. Grounded. Measured.

And apparently, he did this rather well.

A Voice That Reached Our Founders

Benjamin Franklin recommended Tillotson’s works in his 1749 Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, placing him alongside Addison, Pope, and Locke as a model of excellent English prose. Franklin admired his clarity and moral instruction.

John Adams owned a ten-volume set of Tillotson’s works and quoted him in A Dissertation on the Canon and the Feudal Law (1765), valuing his warnings about ignorance and moral carelessness. His son, John Quincy Adams, read him as well, noting specific sermons in his diaries and keeping those volumes in his personal library.

I pause when I imagine sermons written by candlelight in the 1600s resting on the shelves of future Presidents of a nation not yet born.

There is something quietly breathtaking about that.

A seventeenth-century Archbishop wrote about reason, kindness, and living together in harmony.
A century later, the architects of a new republic read him.
Centuries later, I stood in his former church in London and feet the echo of words that refused to disappear.

History is not only events.
It’s influence.
It’s language carried forward.

Writing Across the Centuries

I don’t claim Archbishop-level prose. And my sermons are not written for posterity, but they have found  their way onto digital YouTube archives in ways that that would have astonished my ancestor.

Yet as I finish revising my first book, I feel a quiet kinship with that “plain style.”

Clarity matters.
Humanity matters.
Depth matters.

In an age of noise, speed, and amplification, the discipline of thoughtful language may be more important than ever.

President’s Week reminds me that leadership is shaped not only by dramatic action, but by the steady shaping of thought. By words that invite understanding rather than division. By language that helps us live well together.

If I have inherited even a fraction of John Tillotson’s clear, grounded voice, I am grateful.

And if words truly travel across centuries, perhaps the ones we write today matter more than we know.