Puzzled, people considered my suit, and stared at my shoes.
“Where’d you study?” they said. “What school did you choose?”
“What doctorate letters come after your name?”
I smiled and said, “Nothing,” which sounded lame.
“No diploma? No parchment? No frame on the wall?
No thesis defended? Have you no office we can call?”
They tilted their heads, and then blinked once or twice—
For surely good words must be licensed and priced.
I once knew a chemist with titles galore,
A PhD polished from ceiling to floor.
Yet he phoned others to confirm what he’d mixed.
His absence of mind said his credential was nixed.
But oh, how his diploma sparkled and shone.
It opened up doors before questions were thrown.
His pay came in heavy, his status highly set,
For paper spoke louder than practice, you bet.
Now Jesus? No scrolls from a college elite.
No rabbi’s endorsement tucked under his seat.
The crowd scratched their heads. “Where’d he train?”
For wisdom like his did not fit their terrain.
The disciples? Their résumé fit on one line:
“We walked with the Master. We learned over time.”
And Paul had credentials—impressive and neat—
Yet called them all rubbish at Jesus’ own feet.
“So where,” asked the thinkers with furrowed-up brows,
“Does authority come from, if not paper that wows?”
Jesus spoke plainly, not dodging the test:
“My Father is my source, the best of the best.”
When Jesus’ brothers said, “Go. Be impressive. Be seen.”
He said, “Not my timing.” They thought that was mean.
When crowds cried, “Be king.” with political cheer,
He slipped to the mountain—away from their steer.
When scholars cried, “Show us a sign. Do it now.”
He sighed at their hearts, not impressed by their vow.
And when they demanded his license and right,
He answered, “From God.” Which ignited their fight.
They’d honor a stamp from Gamaliel’s pen,
Or Shammai’s strict rulings again and again.
But heaven’s endorsement? That made them mad—
For God was not listed in systems they had.
Then Jesus said softly, but as firm as can be:
“My words are spirit and life, don’t you see?”
Not ink. Not a seal. Not a badge you can buy—
But life-giving truth from our Author Most High.
So here is the question that wiggles and waits,
Not signed by committees or guarded by gates:
Could words shaped by Spirit, not ego or fear,
Still carry God’s authority—even now, right here?
No ordination can stamp it or prove it’s been sent.
No paper confirms what the Spirit has meant.
But oh, what a calling—humbling and true—
To speak words of life … when God chooses you.
