|
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 lived in a big city. He never traveled 200 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.
Twenty centuries have come and gone, and today he is the
central figure of the human race.
I am well within the mark when I say that 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.
|