Picture the scene. A huge circus tent, an audience of many hundreds. On the stage is a slim man, neatly bearded, wearing a grey suit and a yellow tie. He stands at the lectern and quietly begins his address. Within minutes he has not only won our hearts, we are also aware that we are witnessing a bravura performance. The delivery is full volume but occasionally drops to a whisper. His hands stab the air, he paces up and down, his eyes looking this way, now that. At the end of the address the entire audience rises to its feet and applauds with such energy that if the energy could be tapped it would power a town.

And what was this event? It was a lecture by Sir Jonathan Sacks, the Chief Rabbi. His subject was “The Nature of Covenant.”; not, you might think, material guaranteed to break open hearts and minds, but that is actually what happened. He reminded us that there are two “poles” around which society swings: politics and economics. The one is involved with the management of power, the other with the management of markets. Both involve the making of contracts: the contract of the politician with the public, the contract of the money-lenders with the borrowers. In between these two poles lies an area dominated by the notion of “covenant”, the area of family life, and religion. And whereas in both politics and economics the sharing of resources can lead to the diminution of the giver and the receiver, in the sharing of love, no-one is diminished, everyone gains.

The Jewish faith, he argued, is characterised by the overwhelming concept that God does not make a “contract” with His people, He actually makes a Covenant with them; the eternal reaches out to the finite, the immaterial to the material; the “Thou” of God, in love, reaches out to the “I” of humanity. It is in that eternal Covenant, argued Jonathan Sacks, that we find the source and strength of all other covenants. You only need a Covenant where there is difference. In a world in which electronic communications have the power to fragment, we also need organisations committed to reconciliation. He praised the work of the Council of Christians and Jews, and then spoke, very movingly, about the deep-rooted tolerance and breadth of Anglicanism, and very gently urged us to stay together.

The passion and conviction with which he spoke, appealing to us to work with those of all faiths for the healing of the world, were astounding. It is no wonder that he was cheered to the echo.

The speech came at the end of a long, hot day in which we had been discussing the role of Anglicanism in inter-faith dialogue. As always, stories abounded: the work, for instance, of churches in Lima with the Muslim community, to enable Palestinians to get home to see their ageing parents; the work of the Church in Sri Lanka where inter-faith dialogue is not so much a matter of crossing the road to meet someone of another faith but of talking within families, where close relations may be Buddhist or Muslim or Hindu; stories from other countries where conversion to Christianity results not only in ostracism but also in cruel, personal danger and violation.

On my way back to my room last thing at night, I met a bishop who began to tell me his own story. He lives in a part of the world where it is extremely dangerous to be a Christian; “Every night,” he said, “when I go to bed, I thank God for another day of blessings, and when I get up in the morning, I know that Jesus will be with me, no matter what may happen.” It was said with quiet conviction and deep faith.

In the address to the Conference and in that night-time conversation you hear the voices of courageous human beings, each witnessing to the power of faith and of hope. It is to be hoped that by grace, such contributions can help to shape our own thinking about those contentious issues with which we continue to grapple.