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We offer daily services and a cultural programme of talks, events and concerts. We seek to be a welcoming space for people to reflect, create and debate
Saturday 6 December 12.30pm
Come and follow the shepherds to Bethlehem with John Rutter’s lively Shepherd’s Pipe Carol and Harrison Knights’ evocative arrangement of How Far Is It To Bethlehem?
Sunday 7 December 2-4pm
Once again we’ll be rocking St James’s gorgeous courtyard with our own gospel take on the Nine Lessons And Carols, a selection of seasonal texts and sizzling gospel arrangements of carols.
St James’s hosts inclusive services and a cultural programme. We seek to be a welcoming space for people to reflect, create and debate.
St James’s is a place to explore, reflect, pray, and support all who are in need. We are a Church of England parish in the Anglican Communion.
We host a year-round creative programme encompassing music, visual art and spoken word.
We offer hospitality to people going through homelessness and speak out on issues of injustice, especially concerning refugees, asylum, racial justice, and LGBTQ+ issues.
St James’s strives to advocate for earth justice and to develop deeper connections with nature.
We aim to be a place where you can belong. We have a unique history, and the beauty of our building is widely known. Our community commits to faith in action: social and environmental justice; creativity. and the arts
We strive to be a Eucharist-centred, diverse and inclusive Christian community promoting life in abundance, wellbeing and dignity for all.
St James’s Piccadilly has been at the heart of its community since 1684. We invite you to play your part in securing this historic place for generations to come.
The work of St James’s, it costs us £5,000 per day to enable us to keep our doors open to all who need us.
A reimagined St James’s realised. A redesigned garden, courtyard and new building capacity—all fully accessible— will provide beautiful spaces for all as well as improving our environmental performance.
Whether shooting a blockbuster TV series or creating a unique corporate event, every hire at St James’s helps our works within the community.
St James's Church 197 Piccadilly London W1J 9LL
Directions on Google Maps
During Disability History Month Sally Jacobs explores the intertwined strands of faith, disability, and sexuality, reflecting on how they have shaped her life, identity, and survival.
In my latest bout of depression, it has been so bad that every breath hurt because it meant I existed. That intensity never stays too long. Then I try to imagine being in God’s hands, but my soul slips through His fingers. And now there is just a dull ache. I’m eating again, which is good. I’ve come back to my folks for some TLC. And yet I still feel as though my soul is an open sore. I’m scared about going to church; I’m scared it will hurt too much. It’s St James’ festival, a time of joy and celebration. I’m not sure where I can hide.
I am reminded of Lazarus and the rich man: how Lazarus was taken there every day to beg, to let dogs lick his wounds while parties went on. Lazarus’ humility is profound. I can only begin to imagine how hard his life was, and how he showed up with dignity in the pain he bore.
I wonder where I might find this humility—to bring myself to a party when I feel so far from it. Knowing that it is my friends and church family who are celebrating, those who love me, not an oppressor. I’m not sure I have the humility yet. I still feel scared to be around people while my soul is an open sore.
The only way is to dwell in God’s grace, to be held and protected by God. I think it will still be painful. To dwell in grace and act out of grace is an act of humility. There will be a cost; will I be able to pay it?
It seems I’m hiding quite a lot. 😉 I’ve been aware that I am gay and that I have mental health problems since my teens. I carefully hid them.
In my twenties I was doing a job I really loved: pastoral work, teaching, admin—it was varied and spiritually engaging. It brought me much light and joy.
Having bipolar disorder (BPD) was much harder to hide. It slowly escalated from periods of depression to periods of hypomania, when gold rushed through my veins. The depression was crushing me. I was drowning, burying, hiding, and it was exhausting. Inevitably, I had a breakdown at Christmas 1999.
Bipolar was—has been, is—a tidal wave overwhelming any thoughts of being queer. Conservative churches had a profound effect on my hiding, but BPD was much worse. I was just coping from day to day. There was simply no space for anything other than survival.
In my 30s I was regularly seeing the crisis team. They seemed to think I was queer (I might have imagined that), and I felt they saw being a Christian as unhelpful. I was hiding and didn’t want people I had no respect for speaking into my life. I definitely didn’t want them disregarding my faith—it was the only thing holding me.
I have wondered if my sexuality fed into my illness. Maybe. But BPD is a juggernaut that crushed everything in its sight. Without it, I think I would have come out decades ago. I acutely feel that loss.
The intersection of queer identity, disability, and faith are for me a rope of three strands—inseparable and powerful. I do want all of them. They inform who I am.
I am fortunate, as I have a great community of family and friends who held my silence and kept inviting me into good things. I felt alone but never lonely.
Decades crept by. In my 30s I was mostly ill. I went from golden highs to crushing lows that lasted months on end, to mixed states (the energy of mania with a depressive mood), to rapid cycling (from highs to lows in hours) and then back again. It was exhausting—utterly consuming. But, as in everything, there were points of light: a gaggle of godchildren to distract my gaze.
At the end of the decade I was admitted to a psychiatric ward. This was life-changing. I was cared for. My meds were changed and things got better.
In my 40s, though I was still ill, it wasn’t as intense—a huge relief. I got to do fun things again, like walking the Camino and doing a spiritual direction course. Finally, I had space to think about my sexuality.
Thankfully, I am now ill for just six months of the year. It tends to be two months steady, then six to eight weeks of depression, slipping in and out of acute phases.
I have found the queer community at St James supportive. I have felt held when I write difficult emails. I have been hugged, had coffees when I had nothing to say, visits at home to do the washing up, communion brought to me at the back. People are people, so not everyone gets it—but I don’t notice that. I feel very grateful to be at SJP.
At times I feel isolated; I lack emotional energy. It takes up so much of what little energy I have. Just being at church is hard: to sit, stand, sit again. A lot of the time I feel I have nothing in me to reach out. I feel bad that I don’t volunteer.
For me (and this is just for me), it’s harder to have bipolar than it is to be gay. But perhaps that’s because I’ve never had the emotional space to be gay.
Those three strands—faith, disability, and sexuality—hold fast, and hold me in everything. Together they have formed me, making me the gay Christian woman who has survived and loves life.
