Once a staunch Presbyterian was shipwrecked on a desert island, just like Robinson Crusoe. He was of the rock-ribbed sort, and being a thorough-going predestinarian, took this sort of thing in stride. When it came to suffering adversity, he was at his best. But of course, he also had to deal with some of the other aspects of the ecclesiastical genus to which he belonged. And he was stranded there for many years.
When he was finally rescued, the captain of the ship that found him was being given a tour of the island, and he saw all the things this austere Tishbite had built for himself. In one of the great trees on the edge of the jungle, there was a gigantic tree fort — a truly impressive sight. This was the Presbyterian’s home. He then took the captain a short way down the path, and they came to a small chapel, built out of bamboo. It had a steeple, and a delicately carved cross on the top of it. When the captain had finished admiring it, he started to walk a little further down the path.
“Oh, no need to go there . . .” the Presbyterian started to say, but the captain had already walked around a turn in the path. And then he suddenly pulled up short.
There, just fifteen yards away, was another chapel, just as nice as the first one. “What’s that?” the captain said, puzzled.
The Presbyterian’s face was grim. “Well, it has to be said. That’s where I used to go to church.”