Shlomo Kasef looked at his watch. It was noon.

"Okay, class. See you next Sunday."

Ten twelve-year-olds ran for the door of their Sunday school classroom. Shlomo tapped one boy on the shoulder. "Moshe, I want to talk with you." The boy skidded to a stop as his classmates rushed past.

Within seconds, they were the only two people left in the room. Shlomo Kasef was fiftyish, with a full grey beard. He was a strong man, standing almost six feet tall. Moshe Cohen was tall for a twelve year old, and wiry. He was dressed well, wearing designer jeans and expensive sneakers.

Moshe pointed to the window. "Sid's mother is outside."

"She can wait a bit. We need to talk."

"She doesn't like to wait."

"If she can't, then I will call your father when we are finished. Now, please, sit down."

Moshe didn't sit down. "My father is out of town. He's on a cruise with his girlfriend."

"Then I will call your mother. Now, PLEASE, sit down."

Moshe tried to hide it, but Shlomo saw fear on Moshe's face. Why was he afraid of his mother? His mother was one of the most respected doctors in town - a gifted neurosurgeon.

"My mother is working. She had an emergency. Let's do this another time."

"Sit down, Moshe."

"Come on, Mr. Kasef."

"I said, sit down!"

Moshe sat down, folded his arms, and stared off into space. Shlomo took a deep breath. How was he going to get through to this boy? He decided to go right to the core of the problem.

"Moshe, why are you here?"

No answer. He was closed off.

Suddenly Moshe perked up and looked to the front door. He motioned with his head toward Shlomo, and then shrugged his shoulders. Shlomo followed the object of Moshe's attention. Sid Lehman was standing in the doorway. He had dark curly hair and a mischievous veneer that Moshe brought out.

"Mr. Kasef, my mother said she has to get going. She has errands to do."

Shlomo looked down at Moshe. "Stay here," he ordered. He walked outside, Sid following. Sarah Lehman was sitting behind the wheel of a Lexus SUV, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel.

"Hi, Sarah."

"Hi yourself, Shlomo." She smiled showing perfect teeth. She was in her mid-thirties, busy with family and career.

"I'm sorry for making you wait. I need to talk with Moshe."

"Has he been a problem, again?"

"In a word, yes."

"You should talk with Rachel."

"I would, but she never seems to have the time. And his father isn't around much."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "He likes to party."

"Look, Sarah, if you can't wait, I'll drive Moshe home."

"Would you mind, Shlomo? I really have to get going. We have guests for dinner, and I have nothing to eat in the house."

"It's no bother. It's on my way home."

"By the way, how's my Sid doing? If he's acting up, I'll break his neck. " She gave a threatening look at her son, and he shrank back in his seat.

"Sid is a good boy," Shlomo smiled. Sid gave a sigh or relief.

Sarah pulled away and Shlomo waved goodbye. Then he walked back into the synagogue's classroom.

Moshe was looking out the window, a lost expression on his face.

"How am I going to get home now?" he asked.

"Me."

"You !?"

"Yes, now sit down, like I told you."

Moshe sat down angrily. He started snapping his fingers, making annoying sounds. Shlomo stared at Moshe's hands until he got the message Shlomo wanted him to stop.

"So, Moshe. You've had enough time to think about it."

"Think about what?"

"The question I asked you. Why are you here?"

"I'm here for the same reason everyone else is. My parents make me come here."

"And if they didn't?"

"Look, I just want to get this Bar Mitzvah thing over with, and get the money."

"And then what?"

Moshe was silent.

"How much time are you going to spend on your religion after your bar mitzvah, Moshe?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you'll never set foot inside a synagogue again."

"You got that right."

How do I reach this kid, Shlomo wondered. I was just like him when I was twelve. What could anyone have said to me?

"So you're just in this for the money, huh, Moshe?"

"That's right. I should get around $25,000 for my bar mitzvah presents."

Shlomo let out a long whistle. "25,000 dollars!"

"I'm gonna buy a new car as soon as I turn sixteen."

Shlomo studied Moshe. He looked like he was in nirvana, imagining himself behind the wheel of a brand new car. Shlomo decided to let a little air out of Moshe's tires.

"Just out of curiosity, Moshe. How much are your parents spending on your bar mitzvah?"

"A hundred thousand." There was arrogance in his manner now. "We're inviting five hundred people."

"Seems like a lousy deal to me, to spend a hundred and only get back twenty-five. Why don't you make a deal with your parents? Tell me them to call off the bar mitzvah, and give you fifty. They'll be fifty thousand better off then, won't they? And then you can buy an expensive German car, instead of a cheap Japanese one."

Moshe smiled. "I didn't think of that."

He's not getting the joke, Shlomo thought. "You think it's a good idea?"

"I think it's a lousy idea!" Rachel Cohen called from the doorway.

They didn't hear her come in. She was leaning against the doorjamb, her arms folded. Then she strode into the classroom like she owned it. She was wearing a green surgeon's operating gown. Her brown hair was pulled back, showing her strong cheekbones.

"Hello, Rachel."

"Hello, Shlomo. " She turned to her son. "What did you do now, Moshe? I got a call from the housekeeper saying you were being kept after Sunday school."

"I didn't do anything." Moshe was looking down at his feet.

"Shlomo?"

"He kept interrupting me while I was teaching, making wisecracks. Even when I separated him from the class, he didn't stop."

"That's not true!"

Shlomo sighed. "He said things like, being Jewish is a bunch a crap - all Jewish people care about is money ..." Shlomo paused to look at Moshe. Moshe was shaking his head no. "Then he said he was going to marry a Christian girl because Jewish girls are ugly and have big noses ... this didn't go over well with the Jewish girls in the class ... there's more, if you want to hear it?"

Rachel Cohen stared at her son. Moshe was still shaking his head in denial.

"How dare you!" she screamed. "How dare you!"

Rachel reared back and slapped Moshe across the face.

Shlomo flinched. Moshe held his cheek, his whole face was red as a beet. Then he stood up, pushed his mother out of the way, and ran out of the room. Rachel turned and watched him. When she turned back around, there were tears in her eyes. She groped around and sat down heavily in one of the chairs. "I shouldn't have done that," she said to herself.

Shlomo gently touched her shoulder. "Please stay here, Rachel. I want to talk with you, but first, I want to get Moshe."

Rachel nodded.

Shlomo walked outside the synagogue. There was no sign of Moshe. He went to his pickup truck, opened the door, jumped in, and started it up. He pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the road. Moshe was about two blocks down.

Shlomo rolled down the passenger window when he was next to him. "Moshe!"

Moshe ignored him and walked faster. Shlomo pulled forward. "Moshe! Stop! I want to talk to you."

Moshe started running.

Shlomo shook his head, muttered a few choice words under his breath, and then gunned the accelerator. He pulled up fifty feet in front of Moshe, stopped the truck, jumped out, and chased after him. Shlomo got one hand on his shirt, and then pulled the boy down on the ground. He stood over Moshe, pinning him between his legs, trapping him.

"Let me go!"

"Moshe, I'm too old for this, and you're too smart for this."

"Let me go!" Moshe kicked out and squirmed.

Shlomo pinned Moshe tighter between his legs. "Moshe, I'll let you get up if you promise to come back with me."

"No! I'm never going back to her!"

Now what do I do, thought Shlomo. I'm a Sunday school teacher, not a family counselor. I didn't sign up for this. Then Shlomo thought of Jewish wisdom. Yes, he did not cause the problems of the world. And no, it did not mean he should avoid them, either.

Shlomo moved his legs, freeing Moshe. Then he sat down next to him on the ground.

Moshe straightened himself out. "You ruined my favorite shirt!"

Shlomo saw the pocket was torn. "Sorry."

Moshe tried to stand up. Shlomo pulled him back down.

"Let go of me!"

"I already told you. I'll let go if you go back with me."

"You can't do this!"

"I already am."

Moshe started crying and punching. Shlomo got hit with a wild punch in the mouth and his lip started bleeding. He grabbed both of Moshe's arms.

"Moshe, if I have to carry you over to my truck, bind your arms and legs with duct tape, and throw you in the back, I'm going to. You're my responsibility and I take that seriously. So what's it going to be? The easy way, or the hard way?"

When Shlomo walked back into the classroom, Rachel was reading through her son's Sunday school workbook. It was filled with doodles and scribbles.

Rachel stood when she saw her son, walked over to him, and opened her arms. Moshe stared at her, not moving.

"I'm sorry, Moshe. I lost my temper."

Moshe still did not move. Rachel lowered her arms, a sad look of rejection on her face.

"Would you like to be alone?" Shlomo offered to Rachel.

"No ... please stay ... Shlomo! What happened to your lip?"

Shlomo ran his tongue over his lip. The bleeding stopped, but a swelling started.

"I bumped it on my car door," he said, looking at Moshe. Moshe came to life when he heard Shlomo's lie.

"We should put some ice on it. Wait here, I'll get some from the kitchen." Rachel left the room.

Shlomo and Moshe stared at one another.

"She's trying, Moshe."

"She's a phony."

"She's your mother, and there's nothing phony about that."

Rachel returned with a plastic bag filled with ice. "Here. Put this against your lip, Shlomo. It'll stop the swelling." She placed the ice pack on the side of his mouth, and Shlomo took it from her. She smiled warmly at him and touched his cheek.

"Thanks." Her nurturing touch reminded Shlomo of his own mother.

"Can we go home now?" Moshe whined.

Rachel turned to him. "Soon, Moshe ... first I want to know if you really liked Mr. Kasef's suggestion. If I just give you the money, would you give up your bar mitzvah?"

"I don't know ... maybe."

Rachel took a long time responding.

"Your great grandparents would turn over in their graves if they heard that. It would mean they went to their deaths in the gas chambers for nothing ... my parents ... my parents ..."

She choked up and had to wait before her voice returned.

"My parents, your grandparents, were all that was left of both sides of their families. Now I'm all that's left of them ... and after I'm gone, you will be all that's left of me. You are a Cohane. You come from a long, proud line of Jewish Priests. It's important that you remain Jewish and pass it on to your children."

"Yeah, well maybe it's important to you, but it's not so important to me."

"How would you know? You haven't learned enough to say that."

"Well, you never learned any of this, and it didn't hurt you."

"I never had a chance to study, Moshe. I was too busy helping out in my parents' bakery, and trying to get good grades in school so I could make a success out of my life."

"So, why don't you study this Jewish stuff, and leave me alone!"

"This is not getting anywhere." Frustrated, Rachel turned to Shlomo. "What do you think?"

Shlomo put the ice pack down. He cleared his throat and said, "I think Moshe is right."

Mother and son looked at Shlomo, shocked.

"I think you should study, Rachel. With the Rabbi. I think Moshe should also study with the Rabbi. He needs more attention then I can give him. In fact, it might be a good idea if you both take classes together with the Rabbi."

Shlomo expected Moshe to object strenuously. Instead, he looked to his mother for a reaction. Rachel looked from Shlomo to Moshe and back again. Then she looked at her watch.

"I can't afford the time, Shlomo."

Shlomo was expecting that answer. "You can't afford not to, Rachel. We are losing your son, and he is as important as anything you have on your schedule ... and we have souls looking down, depending on us."

Rachel was silent.

Shlomo turned to Moshe. "And I know your secret, Moshe Cohen. You are a smart, energetic young man, and you are purposely being a pain in the toochus. You know the difference between truth and lies, and you are being forced to do something that is empty, aren't you?"

He nodded his head.

"I, too, was forced into taking part in what I thought was an empty ritual. I memorized something called a haf torah, and spat it out at the appropriate time. When it was over, I didn't know any more than when I started, and I felt like a hypocrite. Afterwards, I didn't set foot in a synagogue for thirty years, which was the opposite of what my parents wanted."

Shlomo touched his lip. The swelling had gone down, like Rachel promised. "But I was lucky. I met a Rabbi later in life and we learned together. I argued and fought with him every step of the way, just like you Moshe. Well, maybe not exactly like you. I never gave him a fat lip."

Shlomo walked over to Moshe. When he raised his hand, Moshe flinched. Shlomo smiled, and then affectionately messed up Moshe's hair. Moshe did not resist.

Shlomo turned to his mother.

"Rachel, our religion is a deep river, lined with bedrock. When you drink from it, it enriches your life. And it is strong, stronger than you or I. When you learn the true meanings, and you should learn them from a Rabbi, then you will feel truly Jewish. You will also feel humble, and at the same time, important. And if you do it right, you might even feel holy."

With that, Shlomo Kasef walked out of the classroom, leaving mother and child to find their way. He whispered, Baruch Hashem, thanking the Almighty for helping him find the words.

THE END