• Welcome to St. James'
  • Worship Times
  • Directions/Map
  • For Children & Youth
  • What to Expect
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    { We're Glad You've Visited }

    We welcome you and invite you to enter into a deeper exploration of a community that shares the love of Jesus Christ with each other, our city, and the world. It takes more than a few words to describe a parish, but there are two things we can tell you right away: we are committed to Jesus Christ and from that commitment flows our care for one another and our ministries. In every ministry and program, we at St. James' Church on Madison Avenue at 71st Street invite you to enter more deeply into the life we share in Christ. We hope you will join us.

    The Rev. Brenda G. Husson, Rector

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    { Sundays }

    8:00 a.m.  |  Holy Eucharist (Chapel)

    9:10 a.m.  |  Holy Eucharist (Church)

    11:15 a.m.  |  Choral Eucharist (Church)

    6:00 p.m.  |  Candlelight Communion

    Mon. - Fri., 8:00 a.m.  |  Morning Worship

  • { Getting Here }

    LOCATION: Madison Ave. between 71st and 72nd Streets

    GET DIRECTIONS: Click here to get directions via Google Maps

    MAP FOR EMAILING OR PRINTING: Click here for more map options

    OFFICE PHONE: (212) 774-4200

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    { First Time Families }

    We've found that St. James' mix of rich Anglican tradition and innovative, fun family worship and programming is just the right recipe for helping kids know God's love.

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    When you come to church at St. James', you can expect to find...

    SPACE TO PRAY. Our services include hymns, prayers, and time for silence, as well as Communion and sermons that connect our Scriptures to our lives.

    SPACE TO BE YOURSELF. Worshipers at St. James' come from many different places, backgrounds, and perspectives.

    SPACE TO MAKE CONNECTIONS. Whether it's your first time or your thousandth, there's always an opportunity to get better connected with God and one another. Join us at coffee hour or stop by the Welcome station on your way out. We look forward to meeting you.

Walking Not Alone

Essay by parishioner Emilie Øyen.

Spiritual stewardship is about taking the time to experience God moving in our lives. Today, Emilie Øyen shares with us her thoughts on walking as prayer – a very literal walking with God. Emilie's words (and pictures):


On late summer evenings in Norway, the sky is still light and soft and gentle. Before I spent summers there, I was afraid that the weirdness of the eternal daylight would be unsettling. But actually it’s very peaceful. The evenings hover for hours and hours in twilight. It’s like having a second day on top of the first; we lay down the day’s tools and resign ourselves to peace until midnight.

Every summer, the children and I go to my husband’s family farm for a month or sometimes two. My husband joins us for a few weeks in August. It is so quiet and beautiful to be in Norway after a year in New York, and I love my husband’s sprawling eccentric family despite that (or maybe because?) I understand so little of what is spoken around me. We speak English together, but naturally they speak Norwegian to each other.  I believe it’s in the underhanded comments and asides where a family’s drama resides, and I am blissfully unaware of it all. I’m cut off, in a way, both from my own life back home, and from those around me.

I sleep a lot on the farm, and read, and make meals for the kids and clean up the meals. I wonder what my friends are doing elsewhere. I think about my past. We go swimming, and I listen to the Norwegian murmuring around me. We return home, and I hang the bathing suits to dry. I put the children to bed, and when they have fallen asleep and there’s nothing much to do, and the light outside is still glowing, I go out for a walk along the roads that cut through the surrounding wheat fields.

Someday, I will step out of this house and walk all the way to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. I know it. I dream of walking across the United States, too. I’ve even been inspired to consider a stroll from Tangier to China, just for the sake of it. I have walked along red dirt roads of rural Africa, and up steep hills passed smashed-out villas in towns recovering from war. I’ve walked a million Manhattan miles. I’ve walked past luscious cows of Normandy and down frozen beaches of winter New England. I walk, wherever I am, to find peace and balance. I walk because---when there is no place or time for church nearby---it is my way to connect with God. 

The dirt driveway from the house to the road is long and steep. I click on Bob Dylan at the same spot of the driveway as on other walks. It is a signal to begin my own procession. It’s chilly. My legs feel heavy, but there is rarely physical agony in walking. I like that it requires no investment or fancy gear. People complain that it’s boring, but to me the tedium is part of the reward. After a mile or so, the mind, released from its daily errands and scheming, begins to detach. My thoughts enter an effortless rhythm and peace. Judgments suspend. Ambition and envy suspends. A space opens, and in that space there is room for prayer. 


Deep shadows sweep across the wheat field beside me. The pines along the far end of the field bend and sway. Cars rarely pass on these back roads. When a car approaches, it slows and creeps along to be cautious, which is spooky to a woman from New York walking alone. I am reminded that no matter how I love this place, it is not my place. It is not where I belong. Although I admit that, lately, even pressing on middle age, I’m not sure where it is that I do belong. 

The wheat bends in the breeze. Each stalk of wheat is feathery and perfect. When the pine trees bow in the wind or the wheat ripples like this, I really believe in the relationship between God and nature. Even the trees and the wheat seem fickle and majestic and searching all at once, like us. I’m thinking this when, in the spot where I’m looking, I see the grains suddenly part. A dark, narrow crevice is opening along the top of the wheat, parting the stalks, the way a fish below the surface of water breaks the surface of the water. It’s a fox, trotting below the wheat past me. I’ve been told they’re around. He is not visible to me, but the sight of his path is delightful and breathtaking. I am far from home and from St. James’, but I am not alone. The spirit is present. I am walking, and I am never alone.

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