There was some confusion at the entrance to the United Nations. A barefoot man in a rough brown robe stood before the security officer. "Which nation do you represent?" he was asked.

"None," he replied.

"Then why are you here?"

"To speak about peace."

"Where is your security?"

"I have none."

"Your official position?"

"Brother."

The officer searched his list. Presidents, prime ministers, ambassadors, and generals were all mentioned. There was no category called brother. Another official came forward, looked carefully at the visitor and suddenly exclaimed, "That is Francis of Assisi!"

The security officer searched the list again.

"I am sorry," he said. "We have presidents, prime ministers, ambassadors and generals, but no list for saints."

Francis looked towards the General Assembly Hall. "That explains the state of the world," he said quietly.

Before the officials could decide what to do, Francis walked past them and entered the hall.

A world leader was speaking passionately about peace while explaining why his country needed more missiles. Another waited to describe how bombing his neighbour would establish regional stability.

St Francis walked slowly down the central aisle towards the podium. Security officers moved forward to stop him, but an invisible force seemed to hold them back. Perhaps it was the authority of a man who wanted nothing from anyone. Perhaps power, accustomed to confronting power, did not know how to confront humility. Nobody dared stop him.

The speaker fell silent. Francis climbed the steps, stood at the podium and looked steadily at the powerful men and women before him.

"Eight hundred years ago," he began, "Christians and Muslims were killing one another in the name of God. Each side believed God belonged exclusively to them. Each believed peace would come after the other had been defeated.

"I crossed the battle lines and met Sultan al-Malik-al-Kamil. I did not carry a sword, an ultimatum or an insult. I went willing to meet the man whom others had reduced to an enemy.

"Today, your weapons can cross continents. Your messages can cross oceans. Your machines can speak almost every language. Yet many of you cannot cross a room to speak to someone with whom you disagree.

"You all say you want peace. If everybody in this hall wants peace, who is keeping the wars alive?"

An uncomfortable silence filled the hall. An official glanced nervously at the clock, but Francis continued. "Peace is not produced by speeches. It begins when you surrender your hunger to dominate. You want peace, but only after your opponent has surrendered, apologised and accepted your superiority. That is not peace. That is victory wearing a white robe."

Even the translators paused.

"You have heard that I called the sun my brother, the moon my sister, water my sister and the earth my mother. You repeat those words at prayer meetings, then step outside and plunder the family.

"Brother Sun has become an energy contract. Sister Water is imprisoned in plastic and sold. Mother Earth is mined, poisoned and stripped of her forests. When she responds with floods, fires and droughts, you wonder why Mother is upset.

"Peace among nations, peace among religions, peace with the poor and peace with creation are not separate struggles. They begin when you stop treating people and the planet as possessions."

The hall remained silent as Francis stepped away from the podium.

Outside, an official offered him a limousine.

"No, thank you," said Francis. "I will walk."

"It is a long road," warned the official.

Francis looked back at the magnificent building.

"Yes," he said, "the road from talking about peace to making peace always is..."