Here is a man who was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another obscure village where He worked in a carpenter shop until he was thirty. He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never had a family or owned a house. He never went to college. He never visited a big city. He never traveled more than two hundred miles from the place where he was born. He did none of those things one usually associated with 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 upon a cross between two thieves. While dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing, the only piece of property he had on earth. When he was dead, he was taken down and 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 and the leader of mankind's progress. All the armies that have ever marched, all the navies that ever sailed, all the parliaments that ever sat and all the kings that ever reigned put together have not affected the life on earth of mankind as powerfully as that one solitary life.

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