I notice the girls first. They're dressed more colorfully and are, for the most part, taller than the boys next to whom they will find seats. As they slide into the row, they stop to give one another brief hugs or to comment on the shoes or skirt they recognize as new. They open up prayer books and begin to follow along. Some smile and telegraph encouragement to their friends on the bima, others finger the ribbon page marker or stare intently at the words in front of them, waiting until it's their turn to stand in front of the congregation and read.

These are not just any bar or bat mitzvah guests. These are members of the seventh grade class at Temple Micah. One by one, those who have already read from the Torah and taught the congregation reach into the small bags they carry with them and put on the their newly acquired tallitot, or prayer shawls. Each is different, matching the personality of the child, some straightforward with just a few horizontal stripes, others colorfully embroidered with images of flowers or stars or pomegranates.

And as each one is adjusted carefully around young shoulders, pulled even with the help of a good friend, I cannot help feeling enormous pride. This, I think, is what it's all about. A bar or bat mitzvah is about achievement, about the mastery of a certain set of skills, about family and tradition. More than this, it's about taking one's place as a full member of the community; it's about coming back the following week.

I have seen this among members of our Adult B'nai Torah class as well as others who have read from the Torah for the first time as adults. The pride in their eyes as they carefully wrap themselves in this symbol of their own spiritual coming of age is awe-inspiring.

There is a shaggy dog story often told among Jewish educators about a rat problem in a synagogue. A group of rabbis is standing around and one complains of a rodent infestation in the sanctuary. Not wanting to kill another living thing, the rabbi has the pests captured and driven 25 miles into the countryside and released. The next week, much to the dismay of the synagogue staff, the rats are back. Another rabbi tells a similar story, saying that the pests were driven to a location 50 miles away, and they, too, came back. A third rabbi joins the conversation singing the same tune, "My congregation had rats as well, but we solved the problem."

"How did you do that?" asked the other rabbis incredulously.

"We gave them each a Kiddush cup and a set of candlesticks, congratulated them on becoming a bar or bat mitzvah, and we never saw them again."

This "joke" has legs, because for years members of the mainstream American Jewish community have viewed the event of a bar or bat mitzvah as a culmination, or ending. But bar or bat mitzvah is not something one does--it's grammatically incorrect to say "when my son was barmitzvahed" --it's something one becomes. The ceremony at which one reads from the Torah or haftarah, teaches the congregation and/or leads prayers is, if not a beginning, then certainly an affirmation of one's role inside the Jewish community.

As I write, exactly half of the students in this year's class have become bar or bat mitzvah; as you read the percentage will be closer to two-thirds. It has been my sincere pleasure to celebrate with all the members of this year's class as they have celebrated this important Jewish rite of passage. It gives me even more pleasure to welcome them back the following week and watch them from a distance as they proudly take their places in our community.

If you should be at services on a Shabbat morning, I hope you will join me in welcoming these, the newest members of our community.