Some might find the religiosity with which John Tavener infuses much of his music to be overly dogmatic, or at least somewhat impalpable; others might dismiss it as one of several knee-jerk manifestations to the percieved lifelessness and self-spirituality of high modernism—the same kind of reaction that is manifested in the ponderous sonic prayers of Arvo Pärt and the namelessly chthonic trappings that accompany minimalism. Both arguments would leave the breadth and depth of Tavener's musical and extramusical philosophies largely unexplored. Compositionally, Tavener's seemingly simple musical symbols and processes are not skeletons stripped of their bodies, but vessels waiting to be filled. And if his opera Mary of Egypt can be considered at all representative of his personal convictions, Tavener's approach to spirituality envelopes and transcends the obedience or disobedience to simple maxims.

The central themes of the opera are some that Tavener had addressed a year before in The Repentant Thief: the comprehensiveness of grace, the eternal immateriality of mortal judgment, and the spark of divinity—however latent—in all human beings. The libretto was penned by Tavener's close friend, spiritual guide, and frequent collaborator, Mother Thekla, Abbess at Normanby. It follows the paths of two very different characters: Mary of Egypt, a sexually promiscuous young lady who lusts after men, wine, and parties; and Zossima, a priest who is all too quick to tout his own piety and list all of the commandments he keeps. As the story progresses, Mary of Egypt's penitential acts are answered with grace sufficient for salvation, and she finally receives forgiveness of her numerous sins. On the other hand, Zossima confronts his lone but damning weakness: pride. A mysterious voice throughout the opera repeats the opening words of the work: "The ways to salvation are more than one." The priest is forced to learn that salvation comes not to those with the least number of sins on record, but to those who have had their record wiped clean, regardless of their history. As suggested in the closing lines by the chorus, the lesson of Mary of Egypt echoes that of other Biblical stories, like the Prodigal Son and the Publican and the Pharisee: that God reserves judgment for himself, and that no one attains perfection without the aid of divine grace. As the librettist states, "No work, no faith can relieve this undeflected assurance that we do not know how we stand and how we shall stand before Christ Judge."

Mother Thekla's conception of the staging called for a certain sparseness, restraint, and stylization that would allow the work to be not a story containing symbols, but a kind ritual narrative made entirely of symbols. In this way, the author claimed, the audience would be free to apply the lessons of Mary of Egypt on a personal level, without any excess dramatic baggage. This philosophy certainly concords with Tavener's compositional style, characterized by its open textures, graceful symmetries, and efficient processes. That the story is a timeless one is represented by the soft, low drone that emerges slowly from the silence at the beginning of the work and runs throughout the entire opera. The characters of Mary and Zossima find musical corollaries: Mary's appearances coincide with flute music—at first Bacchanalian, but by the end lamenting, while Zossima is represented by the trombone, as well as the simantron—a wooden instrument that at one time was used to punctuate important elements of the Byzantine church rites. The "unearthly stillness" that begins each act seems to represent the salvation that both characters seek, and eventually find at the end of very different paths.

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