We are Present

As we begin our journey through the histories of the eight parishes that make up the Draycote and Leam Valley Benefice, I want to introduce you to someone who unexpectedly grabbed my attention—not through fame, but through faithfulness.

His name was Nathaniel Bridges.

My own interest in our shared church history began in Willoughby. I was presiding at communion one Sunday when I glanced at a memorial in the chancel—the part of the church I see every week, yet rarely stop to really read.

But that day, I did. And what I read surprised me.

Unlike many church memorials, which can be quite formal or flowery, this one was deeply theological:

"Faithful in showing the lost state of man as sinner… Ardent in declaring the love and all-sufficiency of the Saviour."

That’s not your average epitaph. It’s not a list of achievements. It’s a gospel summary. And it moved me.

Then I noticed the dates: 1791 to 1834—Nathaniel Bridges was rector here for nearly 50 years.

Nearly half a century of ministry. That in itself is extraordinary. And what’s even more intriguing is that this is the only memorial to a previous vicar I’ve been able to find in the church. Maybe someone knows of another—but as far as I can tell, he's the only one remembered this way, honoured in the chancel.

So I did what any curious person would do: I went home and Googled him.

There isn’t much out there. Just a few lines—some of which you might recognise from our church website. But what little I found said something striking: people came from miles around to hear him preach. In fact, the church built a balcony to accommodate the crowds.

And remember—he stayed. He didn’t pass through on the way to something bigger. He gave his whole ministry to this one place.

Willoughby, as it turns out, has hosted some very interesting clergy over the years. Thanks to Magdalen College, Oxford, which held the patronage, many were clever, well-connected, even famous.

There was Richard Stokesley, brother of the Bishop of London during the Reformation—the same bishop who helped secure Henry VIII’s divorce. His successor? His brother’s chaplain.

In the 18th century, there was even a satirical playwright from Oxford—briefly here for eight months.

But here's the thing: most of them are forgotten.

Nathaniel Bridges isn’t.

He’s remembered in stone. In our records. And in the ongoing life of the church.

Why?

I think it comes down to two things.

First, he preached the gospel—clearly, courageously, and joyfully. He wasn’t afraid to speak about sin, and he wasn’t afraid to declare grace. His memorial says it all: the lostness of man… the all-sufficiency of the Saviour.

Second, he was present. He didn't treat Willoughby as a career step. He wasn’t like many 18th-century rectors who treated parishes like an investment portfolio—drawing the income, collecting the tithes, but never showing up. Those clergy left the real work to underpaid curates while living comfortably elsewhere.

But not Nathaniel Bridges.

He was here.

He preached.

He loved.

He stayed.

His story reminds me of something even deeper—something from our Gospel reading today: John chapter 1.

Yes, that’s usually a Christmas reading. So you might be wondering why we’re reading it in July. But maybe that’s exactly the point.

Remember that old advert? “A dog is for life, not just for Christmas.”Well—Jesus is for life, not just for Christmas.

At the heart of this reading is the astonishing claim that the God who made the universe—the all-powerful Creator—came down.

“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.”(John 1:14)

This is what Christians call the Incarnation: God choosing to be present. Not just in spirit. Not in theory. But in flesh and blood.

He didn’t stay at a distance. He came into the mess and risk and pain of the world. He walked with ordinary people. And ultimately, he gave his life.

That’s what makes Nathaniel Bridges’ story feel so appropriate. He mirrored the God he preached about.

He showed up. He stayed. He served.

In a small rural parish, week after week, year after year.

And that’s a picture of what God has done for us in Christ.

Let’s be honest: many of us still carry around this idea of God as a distant figure with a clipboard—somewhere "up there," keeping track of all our failings. Almost like those absentee clergy of old—collecting dues but never really turning up.

But that is not what the Christian God is like.

God doesn’t send an underling. He doesn’t phone it in. He comes himself.

And he comes not with a list of rules, but with arms wide open.

Nathaniel Bridges didn’t offer people religion. He offered them Jesus—a relationship, not a rulebook. Grace, not performance.

So what does this mean for us?

Maybe it means being present to our neighbours—not just waving politely, but really listening when they’re struggling.

Maybe it means choosing to stay when everything says walk away—whether from relationships, communities, or even church.

Maybe it means showing up in prayer, even when God feels far off.

Maybe it means not giving up. Not on people. Not on yourself.

Because the God who is present with us invites us to be present with one another.