They were forbidden by the Holy Spirit to speak the word in Asia. When they had come opposite Mysia, they attempted to go into Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus did not allow them [Acts 16:6b–7, NRSV].
Sometimes, God leads by telling us where not to go.
That’s what happens in Acts 16, in the verses that lead up to the First Reading assigned for this upcoming Sunday [ Acts 16:9-15 the Sixth Sunday of Easter, RCL, Year C]. Paul and his companions are traveling across Asia Minor, sharing the gospel. They’re moving intentionally, faithfully, making plans to go deeper into the province of Asia. But then something strange happens: they are “forbidden by the Holy Spirit to speak the word in Asia.” So they head north toward Bithynia—and again, a block: “The Spirit of Jesus did not allow them.”
Two refusals. Two names. The Holy Spirit. The Spirit of Jesus.
Was this one message in two voices—or two dimensions of a single presence? The text doesn’t explain. But the point is unmistakable: they aren’t just being delayed. They’re being redirected. And the divine guidance isn’t vague—it’s personal. The One who guides them is the same Spirit who hovered over the waters at creation and the same Jesus who walked beside them and now walks ahead.
They end up in Troas, a port city on the Aegean coast, with no clear next step. To the east lie all the places they’ve just been told they cannot go. Before them is open sea.
It’s a strange place to wait. There’s no vision, no strategy, no clarity—until there is.
In the night, Paul has a vision: a man of Macedonia stands before him, pleading, “Come over to Macedonia and help us.” With that, their path is set. Not east but west. Not deeper into Asia, but across the water—toward Europe.
The vision is compelling. Specific. Urgent. They set out at once.
And when they arrive in Philippi, they meet… not a man, but a group of women. Down by the river, in a place of prayer. Among them is Lydia, a merchant of purple cloth. She is not Macedonian. She is not the man of the vision. But she is the one God had in mind.
The Grace of Closed Doors
We often assume that God’s guidance will come in affirmations: go here, say this, do that. But sometimes, His call begins with constraint. Paul wasn’t called forward so much as he was held in place. His vision didn’t come until every other route had been closed.
That’s not unusual.
Some of us find ourselves in Troas moments—standing at the edge of decisions we thought were ours to make, backed up against the sea, our maps no longer useful. It’s not that we’ve done anything wrong. We’ve just come to a place where the Spirit says, “Not this way.”
We’re not given a reason. Just a redirection.
What’s striking about Paul is not just that he hears the vision—it’s that he responds. There’s no delay, no strategizing, no attempt to renegotiate. He moves. Not toward a man from Macedonia, but toward whatever God might be doing on the other shore.
And when he arrives, what he finds isn’t what he imagined. The help requested by the man in the vision is given by the women at the river. Lydia welcomes them, opens her heart, and then her home. And the gospel takes root in Europe—not through a sermon in a synagogue, but through a quiet conversation by the water.
A Prayer I Didn’t Want to Pray
In 1993, facing the likely loss of my beloved legal mentor, Arthur Larson, well into his 80s, and watching the slow decline of the small congregation I served part-time, I found myself in a season where familiar roads seemed to be closing. Doors that had once stood open now appeared to be narrowing. I had no vision in the night. No voice from Macedonia. Just a deep sense that I was no longer being invited to move forward in ways I had once taken for granted.
In that season, I came across the Wesleyan Covenant Prayer that I had known for years but rarely prayed:
Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt;
put me to doing, put me to suffering;
let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee…
I stopped at “laid aside.”
That wasn’t the prayer I wanted. I wanted a vision, a direction, a sense of next. What I received instead was a kind of waiting. A Troas moment.
And yet, in that waiting, new things began to open. Not all at once. Not clearly. But enough. Conversations led to opportunities I hadn’t expected. Old callings gave way to new ones. More than thirty years later, some of those developments are still unfolding.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Paul had pushed ahead, if he’d refused to be interrupted, if he had treated the Spirit’s “no” as a temporary roadblock instead of a redirection.
I wonder the same about myself.
When the Man Isn’t There
It still catches my attention: Paul sees a man. He meets a woman.
The person he envisioned is not the person who receives him. The help that the man in the vision seemed to request is not the help Paul ends up giving. Instead, Paul is welcomed by someone he never expected—someone who becomes the church’s first host in Europe, someone whose hospitality becomes the seedbed for a new kind of community.
Sometimes we set out to help, and find instead that we are being received.
Sometimes the vision turns out to be a door, and what we find on the other side is entirely different than what we imagined.
Thanks be to God.
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