Every presbytery is a peculiar institution

Today I went to my first presbytery meeting here in NC. As a minister I'm a corresponding member. I can't vote, but I'm recognized. I am still looking for a call here, something I can slip into. Our friend Joey was welcomed into the presbytery at the church in Smithfield, where they'll pay him in sausage and hams. On the stain glass window there Jesus is crucified between two brauts - one of the brauts will be in paradise that day, but the braut that remains is wurst for it. One braut looks at Jesus and says, "We're in a pickle now." The other peppered his speech with ,"I'm not relishing this." "I'm not going to grill you, " Jesus basted - remembering how he and Mary 'ad'n ate some beer battered franks the other day. This window is quite a scene: Jesus, the two brauts, the chorus of angel franks, the sea of relish, the clouds of mustard - the eschatological banquet, complete with doves stuffed with truffles, capers, cherries, with rivers of sauer kraut and lakes of beer, with mountains of rye bread, corned beef aplenty, pigs, geese, cows, fish, chicken, quail, ptarmingan. Cheese and peppers and chips and salsa and hot wings gamboling freely along the table; beers dark and amber and red and pale and brown, chocolatey and berryish and smooth; cheeses soft and hard and crumbly and sharp and mild, with peppers and nuts and wine. And all we come a cross here in this window, this image, this icon. A vision of the heavenly host, a peach tart in chocolate, swells before our eyes and transports us in rapture to a blessed realm where death is swallowed up in victory followed by a nice aperitif, a port or a glass of sherry. At this point we repair to the billiard room and knock some spheres celestial on the green felt fabric of time; we bank our shots and pocket our yearnings, and caroming we go, taking our cues and pooling our resources, cushioning our blows from snookering each other, seemingly without break. Then swinging back in a wing back a thing back in the summer sack we find a knack and cram a stack pan caked and fried our bacon homed and buttered a tale of olden times there not remembered again but spoken a token and folksy trappings extended a trio broke and windowed. Then it's time and time and half a time. But something may be put up in the kitchen, so you stumble back - who broughts a pretzel? who spied a scake? who scaled a fish? And music lofts from throats of the quire triumphant hops and barley sound tapped in harmonious keg, a barrel vault rolling called up yonder. When? Time shall be know'd more. When? The mawning breaks eee-tunnel bride and fair. When? The strummed pet of the Lord shall sound upon that otter sure. When? The called is roll dipped rejoinder eel bee deer. And that's what I stumbled down here for, the octopus salad we had last night. Just enough greens and the octopus sliced and cooked tender, not rubbery - as Christ was between too rubberys in the window. He squid and suctioned limbs, incrimina invertabrate, a trinity of hearts and beakered ink a jet made whiter than any lesser fuller might fill. In an octopus's garden in the shade.
That's all I have got right now.