How do you explain the greatness of the Man whose birthday we celebrate on Christmas?
He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another village. He worked in a carpenter shop until He was thirty, and then for three years was an itinerant preacher. He never wrote a book. He never held office. He never owned a home. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place where He was born. He never did any of the things that usually accompany greatness. He had no credentials but Himself.
Although He walked the land over, curing the sick, giving sight to the blind, healing the lame, and raising people from the dead, the top established religious leaders turned against Him. His friends ran away. He was turned over to His enemies. He went through the mockery of a trial. He was spat upon, flogged, and ridiculed. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves. While dying, the executioners gambled for the only piece of property He had on earth, and that was His robe. When He was dead, He was laid in a borrowed grave through the pity of a friend.
Nineteen wide centuries have come and gone, and today He is the central Figure of the human race and the Leader of the column of progress.
All the armies that ever marched, and all the navies that were ever built, 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 has that One Solitary Life.
Author Unknown