We Built This City (on Pentecost)

Something strange happened to me this week.

I was out walking the dog, listening to the Lectio 365 app. If you’ve not come across it, it’s a brilliant little resource—short reflections, prayers, Scripture readings. A kind of guided quiet time in your pocket.

Monday’s reading was Luke 4:16–21. Right at the start of Jesus’ public ministry, he stands up in the synagogue in his hometown and declares:

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

It’s his mission statement. His reason for being. This is what Jesus came to do.

I paused to pray.

But just then my phone glitched. The app froze, and out of nowhere, We Built This City by Starship started playing.

One second I’m soaking in Jesus’ manifesto for liberation… and the next, Grace Slick is belting out:

Don’t you remember? Marconi plays the mamba, listen to the radio, don’t you remember? We built this city, we built this city on rock and roll…

I had to laugh. And then I found myself asking: Lord, is this from you?

Now, normally, I’m pretty strict about preaching from Scripture, not Spotify. But I couldn’t shake the mash-up in my ears—Luke 4 in one, Grace Slick in the other. So I did a bit of digging.

Turns out, We Built This City wasn’t meant to be a cheesy 80s anthem. It was originally written as a lament. Bernie Taupin and Martin Page wrote it to protest the decline of live music venues in Los Angeles. It was a plea for a return to the soul of the city—creativity, community, music.

And then… irony of ironies… the song was handed to Starship, pumped through the corporate machine, and became one of the most commercially polished singles of the decade.

A protest song turned into a product. A city built on music had forgotten its soul.

And that’s when Pentecost came into sharp focus for me—not just as a moment of birth for the Church, but as a call to return. A return to what the Church was always meant to be.

Because Pentecost isn’t a brand-new initiative from God. It’s not a divine pivot. It’s the next step in the story that started in Eden, when God walked with his people. That’s what we were made for—intimacy, presence, life with him. Pentecost is the Spirit coming not just to visit, but to dwell. To live in us. To walk with us again.

It’s a holy reversal. A healing. At Babel, language became a barrier. At Pentecost, the Spirit smashes that barrier to bits. The gospel goes out—not just in one voice, but in every tongue under heaven.

Which brings me back to We Built This City—because I think it poses a question worth sitting with: What are we built on?

The writers of the song mourned the loss of authenticity in their city. And I found myself asking the same about the Church—not just the Church in general, but the churches I serve here in Draycote and Leam Valley.

Are we still built on what we’re meant to be built on?

Now forgive me one last tangent—but it feels relevant.

Oxford, 1555. Two men, Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer, were executed for refusing to back down from the gospel truths of the Reformation. As the flames were lit, Latimer famously cried out:

“Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.”

That candle was the fire of the Spirit. Gospel truth. The call back to what the Church is meant to be.

That’s what Pentecost is. A holy fire. A return, not just a beginning.

So here’s the uncomfortable question I’ve had to ask myself this week:

What am I building my life on?

Because I’ve noticed something lately. It’s easy—even in ministry, especially in ministry—to drift. To go from walking with God to walking for God. To start measuring success in projects completed, rotas filled, emails sent. To forget the reason any of this exists.

And it’s not just personal. It’s institutional. As a benefice, as part of the Church of England, we’ve got:

• A mountain of paperwork and governance

• Nine beautiful but ageing buildings

• Events and traditions people expect us to keep going

I’m not saying those things don’t matter. But I am saying: they’re not the foundation.

We’re not built on rotas or regulations. We’re not built on tradition or admin. This city—this Church—is built on Jesus’ blood and righteousness.

And if that’s true, then Pentecost is an invitation to re-centre. To rekindle that fire. To remember what we’re for.

The Spirit who came in power still comes today—not just to stir us up, but to strip us back. To call us again to live with God, walk with God, speak with God.

So let me finish where we started—with that odd moment on a dog walk.

Luke 4 in one ear. Starship in the other.

Jesus proclaiming good news to the poor, freedom for the prisoners, sight for the blind. And a pop song asking: What did we build this city on?

It’s a question worth asking. Because if we get the foundation right, the fire will burn again.