When the Sun Disappeared Over Carbondale

On April 8, 2024, thousands gathered in Carbondale, Illinois, to witness a total solar eclipse. Scientists had spent years preparing. Photographers had calibrated their equipment. Yet when the moon slid fully across the sun and the corona blazed out in ghostly white tendrils, something unexpected happened across that field of spectators. People wept. Knees buckled. Strangers gripped each other's arms. No amount of preparation had readied them for the sheer overwhelming reality of standing in the shadow of something so vast and luminous.

That is what happened to Isaiah. He walked into the temple — a place he knew well — and the Lord appeared, high and lifted up, the train of His robe filling the space, seraphim thundering "Holy, holy, holy." Isaiah did not applaud. He did not take notes. He crumbled. "Woe is me! I am undone," he cried, suddenly aware of every unclean syllable his lips had ever formed.

But God did not leave him ruined on the temple floor. A seraph flew to him with a burning coal, pressed it to his mouth, and declared his guilt removed. The Almighty did not reveal His holiness to destroy Isaiah — He revealed it to purify him. And from that purified mouth came the only reasonable response to such terrifying grace: "Here am I. Send me."

We do not volunteer for God's mission until we have first been undone by His presence.