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He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another obscure village where he trained and worked as a carpenter until he was thirty. He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never went to college. He never traveled more than two hundred miles from the place where he was born. He did none of the things usually associated with greatness. He had no credentials but himself. He was only thirty-three. His friends abandoned him. He was turned over to his enemies and went through the mockery and humiliation of an unjust trial. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves. While dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing, the only property he had on earth at his death. He was laid in a borrowed grave. All the armies that have ever marched, all the navies that have ever sailed, all the governments that have ever governed, and all the kings who have ever reigned have not affected the life of humankind on earth as powerfully as that one solitary life.