Mark Lowry vs. the Hot-Take Bandit

Mary Enthroned, painted by Giotto

Apparently there’s something about Christmas that makes ordinary Netizens swarm like jellyfish against popular songs from the past. Remember a few years ago when all of social media became irrationally enraged at Frank Loesser’s vaudeville song “Baby It's Cold Outside”? Or the annual light-beer Marxist rage against Johnny Marks’s “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”? This year’s designated target appears to be Mark Lowry and Buddy Greene’s “Mary, Did You Know?”

For those unfamiliar, Lowry’s poem, arranged by Greene, poses eleven rhetorical questions to Mary, mother of Jesus. Each asks whether Mary anticipated the miracles, wonders, and promises of redemption for which Jesus’ earthly ministry remains influential. Lowry wrote the poem for a Christmas pageant, but struggled to compose satisfactory music. Years later, Greene finally wrote an appropriate tune while Lowry and Greene were members of the Gaither Vocal Band.

This year’s seasonal pile-on happened because the answer to whether Mary knew what Jesus would accomplish, from a biblical standpoint, is clearly yes. At the beginning of Luke’s Gospel, Mary sings the magnificat, anticipating the themes of Jesus’ ministry, before Jesus is even born. Not only did Mary give birth to Jesus, she preached His saving message of liberation to the powerless and deliverance from the empire long before any man.

Lowry’s detractors read his rhetorical questions as denigrating Mary’s involvement in the Christmas narrative. Because the song addresses Mary, but never records Mary’s responses, this interpretation makes some sense. Throughout church history, Christians have pooh-poohed women’s contributions to Jesus’ ministry. Male clergy have turned Mary Magdalene into a prostitute, insisted Priscilla and Aquila weren’t ordained though they clearly were, and turned St. Junia into a man.

I always believe that close readings of any literature must answer two questions: who wrote it? And who did they write it for? (Serious critics will ask even more questions than that, but these two matter most right now.) Lowry, whose stage performances usually include equal mixes of singer-songwriter music and stand-up comedy, wrote these lyrics for inclusion in a Christmas pageant. Let’s consider this song in that context.

Religious theatre, such as Christmas and Easter pageants, exist for a liturgical purpose. We don’t just watch what’s happening; the shows intend to transport viewers into the moment. We stop observing from a dispassionate 2000-year remove, and become part of events. This practice of imagining ourselves into biblical stories has a long history, and was a spiritual exercise recommended by several important Christians, including Margery Kempe and St. Ignatius.

Mark Lowry

Just as important, we don’t merely watch religious pageants; we watch them together. Scholars like Émile Durkheim and Max Weber agree that the community aspect of religion matters, that coming together to share lessons and speak creeds and pray as a people, helps us commit publicly to living our principles. That, arguably, is the difference between religion and faith: we practice religion publicly, and by so doing, become unified.

Mark Lowry wrote “Mary, Did You Know?” for Christians, those already committed to faith, to come together and project themselves back to the Nativity. The questions in Lowry’s lyrics weren’t intended for Mary, they were intended for us, to remind Christians that our practices aren’t empty observances, but mean something in our lives. He wants us to imagine ourselves in Mary’s position, and ask these questions of ourselves.

Tragically, we’ve recently witnessed what happens when Christians don’t recommit themselves to Christian principles. Self-identified White Evangelical Christians have taken lead in ostracizing immigrants, shaming the poor, and persecuting sexual and ethnic minorities. The practice of calling ourselves Christians, without constantly recommitting ourselves to the precepts Christ preached, has taken a catastrophic toll on our nation, our environment, and our people.

When Mark Lowry asks his eleven rhetorical questions, he means them for us. And he means us to recommit ourselves to the knowledge that every answer is “Yes.” Mary, a poor, unmarried citizen of a marginalized nation conquered by a foreign empire, knew. She knew these truths, and sang the Magnificat surrounded by the knowledge. She never forgot; but we, who claim to believe her child’s message, forget a lot.

If Lowry really intended these questions for Mary, they’d be presumptuous, rude, and biblically illiterate. But that’s a misreading of Lowry’s intent. These questions aren’t for Mary, they’re for us. If we can stop reflexively rushing to defend Mary from an attack that isn’t happening, we can maybe ask ourselves whether we know. Because too often, we need only look around to see that the answer is, tragically, no.