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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
Sunday 3 May 6pm
Soul at Saint James is a Gospel music service with the incredible, Soul Sanctuary Gospel Choir.
Friday 15 May 7pm – 9pm
An open evening where the LGBTQIA+ community and allies can ask clergy honest questions about queer and trans identities in Christian faith.
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.
It costs £5,000 each day to keep the doors of St James’s open to all who already 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
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Cameron Goon reflects: Like searching the maze of Tokyo for a towering skyscraper that always seemed just out of reach, my faith journey often feels like scrambling toward a distant God—only to realise that perhaps God has been present with me all along.
A few months ago, after an enthusiastic session of karaoke in Tokyo, my friends and I had ten minutes before our booking for the observation deck of Shibuya Scramble Square, a 47-storey skyscraper in the heart of the city. Thankfully, it would only be a five-minute stroll according to Google Maps, and safe in that knowledge, along with the fact that we could see the skyscraper itself, we set off.
Battling through the crowds, we walked through shopping malls, underground tunnels, and narrow bridges; up escalators and down flights of stairs – and five minutes later, we were nowhere near our intended destination. We pressed on, our faces lit by mammoth screens covering every available surface, advertising products I’d never imagined. And another five minutes later, we were no closer, and yet looming in the distance was the skyscraper, visible from all angles and apparently unassailable.
Pooling our collective brainpower, we decided to let our one sober friend lead us. We started again, only to hit wrong turns and dead ends. Throughout it all, the skyscraper stood solemnly – imposing, unchanging, and seemingly distant. And that’s what I’ve been thinking about this week: me – scrambling around, never seeming to get closer to God yet seeing Them wherever I turn; and God – imposing, unchanging, and seemingly distant.
I have a confession to make – I don’t know if I’ve ever felt truly close to God. Close enough to reach out and touch God, to give myself fully to God, to let God’s love wash over me. Don’t get me wrong though – I like to think I know God, and I can see God, and that these two facts inform the way I live my life. But is that enough? Like the man who’s never tasted an apple but has read centuries of writing describing the crunch of a Honeycrisp and the sweetness of a Fuji – what good is knowing if I don’t feel it?
And if knowing without feeling is futile then how does one remedy this? Is there a clearly marked path – a staircase, or even an elevator – anything that might lift me above the hustle and bustle of life and into God’s presence?
Sometimes I envy those who speak of being touched by God – of moments when their world was falling apart and all they had left was God. I recognise that feeling to some extent: there have been times of strife when I felt more dependent on God, praying more often and turning to scripture more readily.
And yet part of me is cynical. Do things need to fall apart for me to depend on God? Why can’t I feel close to Them while times are good? It almost feels like a reversal of the accuser’s hypothesis in the story of Job, not:
Does the righteous person honour God because God has given them everything?
but rather:
Does the righteous person honour God because they have nothing else?
To some extent, I wonder if my life is too comfortable – I’m lucky to have a lovely network of friends and family around me, I’m generally mentally and emotionally stable, and I can afford the odd M&S shop. And maybe this is the problem: that I simply don’t have the space to let God into my life, as if instead of searching for God in the proverbial streets of Tokyo, I’m sat motionless before a giant billboard, entranced by the neon lights.
This all feels particularly close to home in the context of my confirmation on Holy Saturday – a moment often described as “turning towards Christ” – and I wonder whether this turning is meant to be a graceful pirouette or something closer to a lifelong revolution. Does being confirmed automatically make me a more valid Christian? Does it give me more authority to speak on matters concerning Christian life?
And perhaps these questions expose a belief I can’t quite shake: that God is something I need to reach, rather than someone already present. How is it possible that I can feel like I’m failing at being a good Christian – wishing I were more learned, more principled, more kind – while also accepting that none of that has any bearing on Their love for me?
Maybe there’s no skyscraper, no elevator, and no need to get up there at all. And maybe God is already here – in you and in me – and to remain within the chaos we call human life is to be right there with God. As Psalm 139 puts it,
Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.
