The Reason for the Season

He was born in an obscure village, the son of a peasant woman.
He grew up in another village, where He worked in a carpenter's shop until He was about thirty. Then for three years He became a wandering preacher.
He never wrote a book. He never sought an office. He never had a family nor owned a house. He didn't go to college. He never visited a big city. He never travelled two hundred miles from the place where He was born. He did none of those things one usually associates with greatness.

He had no credentials but Himself.

He was only thirty-three when the tide of public opinion turned against Him. His friends all ran away. He was turned over to His enemies and went through a mockery of a trial. He was executed by the state. While He was dying, His executioners gambled for His clothing, 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 still the central figure of the human race and the leader of mankind's progress. 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 mankind on this earth as much as that One Solitary Life.

"For God so completely loved the world of mankind that He gave up His uniquely-begotten Son, in order that whoever trusts in Him should not perish like rubbish, but rather be having everlasting Life."

Merry Christmas, one and all!