He was
born in an obscure
village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another village,
where
He worked in a carpenter shop until he was thirty.
Then for three years
he was an itinerant preacher. He never wrote a book. He never held an
office.
He never had a family or owned a home. He didn’t go to college. He
never
visited a big city. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place
where He was born. He did none of the things that usually accompany
greatness.
He had
no
credentials
but Himself. He was only thirty-three when the tide of public opinion
turned
against Him. His friends ran away. One of them denied him. He was
turned
over to His enemies and went through the mockery of a trial. He was
nailed
to a cross between two thieves. While he was dying His executioners
gambled
for His garments, the only property He had on earth. When He was dead,
He was laid in a borrowed grave through the pity of a friend. Nineteen
centuries have come and gone, and today He is the central figure of
the
human race.
All the
armies
that
ever marched,
all the navies that ever sailed,
all the parliaments that
ever sat,
all the kings that ever reigned,
put together,
have not
affected
the life of man on this earth
as much as that one solitary life.
by James A. Francis
