Homily on Isaiah 62:1-5: “You Shall Be Called My Delight”

Homily on Isaiah 62:1-5: “You Shall Be Called My Delight”

Picture, if you will, a city burdened by its own history. The walls are broken, the gates hang off their hinges, and every stone has its story of something once grand but now lost.[1] This was Jerusalem when the exiles came home, lured by the promise of a brighter day, only to face rubble and fatigue. It’s in this very scene that the prophet of Isaiah 62 speaks a word so bold it almost contradicts what everyone sees: “For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent, until her vindication shines out like the dawn.”[2]

Already, there’s a tension in the air—things look hopeless, yet a voice dares to insist that God’s new dawn will break. Isaiah describes a sweeping reversal: from “Forsaken” to “My Delight Is in Her.”[3] Out of devastation, the prophet envisions a bride stepping to meet her beloved, no longer hidden or ashamed but radiant enough for nations and kings to notice.[4]

If we pause and let our own hearts stand in the rubble, it might feel all too familiar. Haven’t we each known moments of returning to a place we hoped would be “home” only to discover it’s still torn and fragile? Perhaps we carry labels—failures, regrets, or painful memories—like the city carrying its scars. So Isaiah 62 addresses not just an ancient ruin but every part of us that feels the weight of being named “Desolate.”[5]

The passage reveals that God has more in mind. “You shall be called by a new name,” the prophet proclaims. Think for a moment about those old names we’ve worn, the ones that hem us in: “unlovable,” “has-been,” “unworthy.” Here, God says no: “You shall be called My Delight Is in Her.”[6] This is not some small correction but a cosmic shift in identity—one that invites us to imagine the love that claims us. Is it possible that God truly delights in you, in us, even when we think of ourselves as ruined cities?

The words of Isaiah burst with lavish imagery: a crown of beauty, a royal diadem, a wedding day.[7] We might be tempted to dismiss such images as overblown. Yet maybe Scripture overflows with language like this because our hearts need something big enough to crack our cynicism. God’s delight is no timid thing. It glows like a torch in the night, burning away the old shame.

This hope, though, is not just for our private consolation. Isaiah’s vision is public—“all the kings your glory.”[8] If we trust that God is breathing fresh life into us, we can’t keep quiet. We begin to see beyond the rubble in our communities, too, refusing to label people or places as hopeless. God’s delight extends there as well.

In the end, the prophet likens God’s joy to a bridegroom rejoicing over a bride—close, celebratory, brimming with promise.[9] That is how intimately God seeks us, how deeply God intends to heal and rename us. Instead of “Forsaken,” we are the beloved one. Instead of “Desolate,” we are “Married”—rooted in a covenant that will not give up on us.

Name whatever in your life stands as a broken wall or a deserted street. Hear Isaiah’s words: “You shall be called My Delight Is in Her.” Let that promise sink in. Maybe it’s been a long time since you dared to believe such hope. Yet God’s message remains: we’re not left with the names or stories that used to define us. In the midst of our scattered bricks and broken gates, God is busy writing a new future, offering us a new name, giving us a reason to step forward with dignity.

And, we need not stay silent. This is a gift meant to be shared. If we’ve tasted even a morsel of that divine delight, how can we not speak it into the struggles around us? The God who rejoices over us calls us to carry that same hope into the places still neglected or cast aside.

So, imagine that wedding morning. Imagine rising early, clothes laid out, excitement in the air, an entire day devoted to celebration. That’s the energy of Isaiah’s vision: God finds joy in us like a bridegroom on his wedding day. This is the heart of a love so strong it redefines who we are.

Let us claim it. Let us trust that even if our walls look battered today, God sees something worth restoring. Let us wear our new name—“My Delight”—and let it reshape how we treat ourselves, how we regard neighbors, and how we speak of those who feel forsaken in the world. The prophet’s vow—“I will not keep silent”—becomes our vow too, declaring that brokenness doesn’t have the final word. God’s delight does.

May we live into that promise, letting God’s unwavering love rename us, and in doing so, become a “crown of beauty” that all can see. And as we do, we discover anew that the story is not finished. The battered gates we’ve worried would never stand again might actually swing wide in welcome, and the place once labeled Desolate might ring with laughter and music once more. Because the Lord takes delight in you, and that delight has power to make all things new.

 

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[1] See Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56–66: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (Anchor Yale Bible; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), pp. 212–215. Blenkinsopp provides an overview of the post-exilic context, noting the discouragement of returning exiles.

 

[2] For a discussion on the composition of Isaiah 56–66, see Klaus Baltzer, Deutero-Isaiah: A Commentary on Isaiah 40–55 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), especially the introductory remarks on the later chapters. While focused on Deutero-Isaiah, Baltzer addresses the development leading into Trito-Isaiah.

 

[3] On the significance of these Hebrew words, see John D. W. Watts, Isaiah 34–66 (Word Biblical Commentary; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2005), pp. 330–332, discussing how these terms underscored the communal sense of abandonment.

 

[4] The covenant-as-marriage motif appears in Hosea 1–3 and Jeremiah 2–3. For more on this imagery, see Gene M. Tucker, The Book of Isaiah 40–66 (NIB; Nashville: Abingdon, 2001), pp. 606–607, examining how marriage language conveys divine intimacy and faithful love.

 

 

[5] On Baruch’s depiction of a fruitful earth, see The New Oxford Annotated Apocrypha, 4th ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), which places Baruch within a post-exilic or diaspora context, highlighting themes of restoration and superabundance.

 

[6] The Hebrew phrase hephzibah means “my delight is in her.” For lexical details, see Ludwig Koehler and Walter Baumgartner, The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament, vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1994), p. 354.

 

[7] See Christopher R. Seitz, Isaiah 40–66 (Interpretation; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), pp. 518–519, highlighting how renaming in Scripture symbolizes a radical shift in identity and destiny.

 

[8] Ezra-Nehemiah offers insight into the struggles of rebuilding Jerusalem. For a historical-critical overview, see H. G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah (Word Biblical Commentary; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1985), discussing the interplay of hope and disillusionment in the returning exiles.

 

[9] On the rhetorical style of Isaiah 62, see Claus Westermann, Isaiah 40–66: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1969), pp. 366–368, emphasizing the prophet’s oratorical flair and dramatic calls for transformation.