It happened once upon a time that Nasruddin was travelling through a deserted part of the country when a powerful storm broke over him. Rain began to pour down and a mighty wind threatened to sweep him off his feet. It got worse and worse, but then, thought the noise, he heard someone calling : “Mullah! Mullah! This way! Take refuge here!”

Barely able to see, the Mullah followed the voice through the blinding downpour and found himself in a small, old, rather rickety building that nevertheless offered some shelter from the storm.

“Welcome,” said the man who had called to him, “it is a terrible storm our Lord has sent, but you will be safe here, for this is a house of prayer. It has been sanctified by the faithful for many years, and surely God will preserve it.”

The Mullah looked around doubtfully. The walls were shuddering and shaking from the pounding of the wind. “Are you sure, brother?” he asked.

“Without doubt!” said the man. “Why, this house is so holy that it now says prayers itself. Listen,” he commanded, as they rafters above them creaked under the pressure of the wind. “They are praising the power of the Almighty!”

“That’s all very well,” said Nasruddin, “Let them praise Him as much as they like – as long as they don’t decide to prostrate themselves!”