I’ve sporadically attended the same Congregational Church for almost all of my life. I was baptized there and went through years of Sunday School as a child. In the pews, I’d see my friends, next door neighbors, and several teachers.

I went to preschool in the building (where my mother was President of the PTA), raced pinewood derby cars as a cub scout in their rec room, participated in the Christmas play, and went there every year for Christmas Eve and Easter.

In the summer we’d go on family retreats through the church to Cape Cod.

On my church’s hallowed grounds I learned special Christian songs, ran wild throughout the playground, and searched for Easter Eggs on people’s graves (weird, I know).

It’s where I learned to play and pray.

When I was in my twenties, the congregation rallied around my family after Mom got pancreatic cancer. Every week they prayed for her. They brought her food and gave her a special shawl – handmade with love and faith.

A specialist in care ministry held Mom’s hand through chemo, our hands in the hospital waiting room during Mom’s thirteen-hour surgery, then Mom’s again as she recovered.

After several years away and with ample time spent pursuing young tomfoolery, I came back into the fold. If there was ever a place I felt like I belonged, it was at my church – until I learned I didn’t.

There was some paperwork that never got filled out and magic words I never said.

When I introduced my girlfriend Jenny to the church, we learned that though I had been baptized to the church, I’d never been confirmed – a step I didn’t know was necessary to fully “belong.”

It would be a lie to say it didn’t hurt. It didn’t help that the pastor who told me had only been there for a few years while I’d been there for almost thirty.

I learned that many of the things I’d associated with the building throughout my life weren’t actually involved with the church. The pre-school wasn’t affiliated, just a non-profit paying rent. The cub scouts simply needed meeting space. Our summer retreats were through an umbrella group, not through the congregation.

These revelations made me question if I actually did belong and if belonging was more than a feeling.

If, indeed, I wasn’t a member, was I just a guy who occasionally showed up?

Group association is powerful, ask anyone with a Costco card.

There is social belonging and there is tangible belonging, which at times can be hard to tell apart. Tell any blushing bride that she now belongs to her husband and you’ll likely get slapped in the face. But tell her instead that “you two belong together” and you’ll probably make her day.

I don’t know why the paperwork never got filled out. My Mom was raised Jewish and probably didn’t know the process. It could’ve been because I lost interest when my two best friends left the Congregation and my secret crush moved away.

That’s why I never went to the last year of Sunday School, which turned out to be the one that really mattered since it ended with a confirmation of your faith.

But there’s more than one way to belong.

Luckily, for me, I bridged the gap with a class or two from the pastor and by standing before the Congregation to say the magic words. Jenny said them too and went on to serve as the church’s Outreach Director until we moved away.

After years of simply showing up, I became a member of the church because the pathway was made clear and I was treated with dignity and respect.

I’ve been thinking about this situation a lot during our country’s immigration debate. And about what it’s like to feel that you belong when technically you don’t, even though you may have been raised there, educated there, supported there, and contributed to its growth.

I was fortunate to be part of a congregation that was so supportive and caring. I probably took from them a lot more than I’ve given back, but we’re working on it.

Being told I was less than an equal, especially by someone new, could easily have soured me on the whole place, but it made me love them more.

Membership was never a factor in how I was treated. When I was young they let me play, when I was scared they gave me comfort, when I was alone they held my hand – even in a hospital waiting room.

Three years ago, Jenny and I stood in that church and joined as husband and wife. Later this year we will baptize our first child in the same spot.

It seems to me that everyone should be treated this well. But maybe I’m just a dreamer.

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