He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman.  Until He was thirty, He worked in a carpenter shop and then for three years He was an itinerant preacher.

He wrote no books. He held no office. He never had a family or owned a home. He didn't go to college. He never travelled two hundred miles from the place He was born. He had no credentials but Himself.

He never did any of the things that usually accompany greatness.

The authorities condemned His teachings. His friends deserted Him. One denied Him. One betrayed Him to His enemies for a paltry sum, the price of a slave.

He went through the mockery of a trial.

He was nailed upon a cross between two thieves. While He was dying, His executioners gambled for the only piece of property He owned on earth: His coat. When He was dead He was taken down and laid in a borrowed grave.

Nineteen centuries have come and gone, yet today He is the crowning glory of the human race, the adored leader of hundreds of millions of the earth's inhabitants.

All the armies that ever marched and all the navies that ever sailed and all the parliaments that ever sat and all the kings that ever reigned, put together, have not affected the life of man upon this earth as much as that One Solitary Life.