Advent 4

For the next several weeks, we welcome guest writers from the Chrysalis Board of Directors as they share their thoughts and perspectives from the Gospel writers during this Season of Advent. Enjoy!

There is a moment in every life of faith when circumstances cause words to rise from deep within the soul — not in the form of doctrine or duty, but from the heart as a song. For Mary, like many of us, that song comes at the threshold of uncertainty. Her body carries both promise and risk. Her future is unclear. And yet, when she speaks in Luke 1:46b-55, what pours out is not fear or calculation, but worship:

“My soul magnifies the Lord,

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

The Magnificat is more than poetry. It is embodied resilience. It is what it sounds like when a person dares to hold both the weight of the world and the wonder of God at the same time.

As a chaplain and a therapist, I hear echoes of Mary’s voice every week — sometimes trembling, sometimes weary, but always reaching toward faith in the midst of emotional complexity.

For clergy, that complexity is often intensified. We live in the tension between divine calling and human fragility. There is the anxiety of holding another’s pain while neglecting our own, the exhaustion of continuing to show up when the soul feels quiet or even numb, and the guilt that arises when we acknowledge our need for rest, space, or care — even as others still need us.

In the therapy room, I often invite clients to practice “holding two things.” It is a form of dual-attention awareness that allows a memory, image, feeling, or bodily sensation from an earlier experience to be held alongside present-moment awareness — with the assurance that right now, you are safe, grounded, and here.

In a way, Mary’s song gives us permission to hold two things at once. It invites us to pause long enough to notice what is happening within us and to speak honestly about it. Mary does not minimize the fear or uncertainty she faces; she tells the truth about her situation while anchoring herself in what God has revealed about God’s own faithfulness. In doing so, Mary’s song gives us permission to slow down and speak honestly about both the weight of what we are carrying and the hope God is stirring within us.

Mary does not minimize her reality — she magnifies God. There is a difference. Minimizing denies emotion. Magnifying integrates it. Her soul does not shrink around the struggle; it expands around the presence of God in the middle of it.

Mary’s song grows not out of certainty, but out of trust formed by grace in the middle of uncertainty.

In the language of trauma-informed care, we might describe this as regulation through connection — a re-centering of the nervous system through relationship, meaning, and presence. In theological language, we call it incarnation — God choosing to dwell in human vulnerability.

Mary speaks in verbs of action and remembrance. God has looked upon the humble. God has done great things. Mercy moves from generation to generation. The proud are scattered. The lowly are lifted. The hungry are filled. The language is not abstract. It is concrete, embodied, and relational. God’s mercy is not imagined, it is remembered and named.

The Magnificat is not a song sung after everything has been resolved; it is a song for the present moment. Mary names what God has done and what God is still doing in the midst of the unfolding. Her praise is rooted in trust, not certainty. Her faith does not wait for clarity; it responds to presence.

For those of us navigating emotional fatigue, compassion burnout, or grief in ministry, Mary’s posture becomes a quiet roadmap. Before her song ever changed the world, it changed her. It restored her sense of belonging and purpose. The Magnificat begins in solitude and moves toward solidarity — “He has helped his servant Israel.” The journey from isolation to belonging is itself an act of healing.

Perhaps the invitation this Advent is to let your own soul find its Magnificat — not a perfect song, but an honest one. Could you ask yourself: “what is my soul magnifying these days — fear, obligation, weariness?” And when you name that, is there still room to hold what you know to be true about God?

Advent reminds us that faith is not spoken after everything is resolved, but from within it. Mary’s song rises before the future is secure, naming trust even while the way ahead remains uncertain. In therapy, we call this integration. In faith, we call it surrender. In both, it is holy.

For Reflection

Set aside ten minutes this week to write your own Magnificat.

Begin with the words, “My soul magnifies…”

Do not edit. Do not correct. Let it be prayer, lament, gratitude — whatever your soul is carrying.

Prayer
May this be your prayer as you “hold two things” in this season:                  God who magnifies mercy in the midst of fear,

teach me to sing again.

When my heart is tired,

remind me that worship can also be a form of healing.

May my soul magnify You — not by denying my pain,

but by discovering Your presence within it.

And in every trembling “yes,”

birth something holy through me again.

Amen.

With gratitude for your faithfulness and grace for the season ahead,
Rev. Chaplain (MAJ) Brandon Johnson, LMFT
Board Member