It has been taken up by meme lords and keyboard warriors—the issue of the beloved but hotly debated Mark Lowry hit, “Mary, Did You Know?” The song asks, in my estimation, two distinct types of questions. There are questions that concern the events of Jesus’s life (e.g., “Mary, did you know that your baby boy would one day walk on water?”), and there are theological questions concerning the personhood and nature of Christ (e.g., “Mary, did you know that your baby boy is Lord of all creation?”). Those who take issue with the song point out that Mary was visited by the angel, Gabriel, who specifically informed her that she would bear the Son of God. Mary consents to this message, saying “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Further, she amplifies the message of the angel (upon witnessing Elizabeth’s pregnancy) with a song, declaring God’s blessing for the hungry, poor, lowly, humble, and oppressed. By all accounts, it seems the critics are correct about Lowry’s song—that is, for one set of questions. In faith, according to the Gospel of Luke, Mary believes what the angel has told her, that she is bearing the Son of God.
(Now, I would argue that the matter of bearing the Son of God through miraculous, Spirit-induced conception could hardly be cleared up by a single conversation with an angel. Mary must have been confused and afraid. She surely had a few questions. But we are not told about her confusion. Rather, we are told of her faith—her belief that this uncertain situation is orchestrated by God.)
But where I really want to push back on the critics is on the particular events of Jesus’s life. The answer is no—Mary could not have known that Jesus would walk on water, that he would heal peoples’ ailments, or that he would calm a storm. She, like every mother that has ever existed, contended with the troubling limits of her knowledge. What would her son do? How would he grow? Would he leave home? Would he be safe? And perhaps the most troubling question any parent dares to wonder: will my child bury me, or will I bury my child? It is the question we hope we know the answer to, but so often fail to accurately predict. It was a death out of order for the mother and son. As the refrain goes for such circumstances, “A parent should never have to bury their child.” It always feels wrong when it happens. Did Mary know? Certainly not.
Last night, my husband and I sat in a pew in one of the churches that helped raised me. We are home for the holidays, and last night was our annual Christmas Eve service. As we walked in, I missed the table where we should have picked up small battery-powered candles (church custodians know what’s up). It’s a tradition of ours to sing “Silent Night” by the warm glow of candles. After we took our seats, I realized my mistake. So, my kind husband quickly ran out to the lobby to fetch our candles. By the time he returned, our singing of carols had begun. As we sang words about Mary’s precious baby boy, my husband handed me the candle. I froze as I looked down, suddenly catapulted back to a memory I often avoid. The small candle was identical to one I held earlier this year, in cupped, trembling hands, while lying in a hospital bed.
I was being prepped for surgery when a young hospital chaplain entered our room. “Are you Amy and Nathan?” he asked, with a tender look of consolation. (He bore no hint of pity in his expression, though. “Hmm. A well-trained chaplain.” I thought to myself.) He took a seat near us and confirmed our reason for being there. “You lost your baby. I am so terribly sorry.” We had no more tears left to shed, so we quietly nodded. “It was a late loss, so these doctors are here to help your body through it.” We nodded again. “Would you like for us to pray together?” Nate and I looked at each other with dread. “We can’t.” I told him. “But we would be grateful if you would pray for us.” He pulled out a small, battery-operated candle, and placed it in our hands. We turned on the switched and fixed our eyes on the orange-ish flicker, while he offered a prayer on our behalf. Internally, my mind contested his prayer: “Hey God—what the actual hell??”
It would be months before I could even begin to imagine my own dark womb having anything to do with the dark tomb of Jesus’s burial. It would be months before I would invite Mary to console my wounded heart in a way that only she could—from one grieved mother to another.
We sat in the dark church, candles flickering, and I could not get the words to come out of my mouth, “sleep in heavenly peace.”
What did Mary know? From the moment of conception, Mary was launched into the liminal space of every pregnant parent. Here is this child that you will adore in inexpressible ways, and no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to protect them from their own humanity. In Mary’s case, God made Godself human, took on the nature of a servant, and became obedient to death; God became human, and would not expect to be spared from it.
What did Mary know? It’s hard to say. But what we do know is that she showed up in faith. She believed what the angel told her. And that belief was enough to help her endure the hours of labor, the physical trauma of birth, the long nights of crying, the often painful and emotionally taxing journey of breastfeeding. She had faith enough to anticipate his power at the wedding in Cana, and faith enough to follow him to the shadow of the cross. She had faith enough to cradle him as an infant, and faith enough to cradle him in death (as so many painters and sculptors have imagined and depicted over the centuries).
Mary was a mother, meaning she lived with a great deal of uncertainty, and required a great deal of faith. As we enter the New Year, we cannot possibly know what awaits us. Some of us may encounter a multitude of unexpected joys! But still, some of us will experience those out of order losses, the ones that make us say, “No one should have to go through that.” Should you find yourself in death’s shadow, reckoning with your humanity and God’s place in it all, may you find solidarity and comfort in the faith and uncertainty of Mary.
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