Matthew Haymer almost didn't make it here, standing in front of his family and friends at Temple Emanu-El, proudly reading from the Torah.

When he was born, Matthew came out feet first; complications led to his body being deprived of oxygen for a time.

His grandmother, Helen Haymer, remembers the day he was born. She has instant recall of that horrific mental picture of his tiny body, unmoving, long, plastic tubes snaking out of it. No one knew in those first days how much damage had been done, or how far Matthew would come.

During his bar mitzvah, the ceremony in which Matthew formally became a full-fledged member of Hawai'i's Jewish community, his mother, Bea, choked up, remembering his birth, the sirens and the flashing lights:

"All the things I prayed for that day, they all came true," she told him, tears welling in her eyes.

As mother, father, sisters and grandparents stood to address Matthew on this momentous occasion, they took turns reminding him what a miracle he was. Schoolmates and teachers from Waldorf School, where he now is in seventh grade, joined other members of the temple to watch the proceedings. Some even brushed away tears, as both of his proud grandmothers stood at the bimah (podium) and reminded him of his remarkable progress.

Matthew, at 13, watched with an embarrassed smile on his face, even as their tear-streaked cheeks were pressed to his dry one.

At one point, he couldn't keep himself from sheepishly rolling his eyes as his big sisters patted him and came in together for a big hug.

FEW BUT PROMINENT

It's been a long haul for Matthew, if not as long a haul as it's been for Hawai'i's Jewish community. The faith group staked its claim in Hawai'i back in the middle of the 19th century, according to former Temple Emanu-El Rabbi Avi Magid. It began to flourish in an organized way at the end of World War I and became permanently organized at the end of World War II.

The synagogue isn't very large, though it is prominent: Doctors, attorneys and professors make up a disproportionate number of the 250 households that are regular Temple Emanu-El members. Matthew's father, for example, is a professor of cellular and molecular biology at the University of Hawai'i-Manoa.

Just how large is Hawai'i's Jewish population? That has been debated for decades.

Do you count the number of people who attend services weekly throughout the Islands? If so, then fewer than 1,000 of the nation's estimated 6 million Jews would be counted as Hawai'i residents. Temple Emanu-El, the largest congregation in Hawai'i, averages about 50 to 75 people at the Friday-evening service, said Ken Aronowitz, who has been leading services in the slice of time between Magid's departure and the arrival of interim Rabbi Peter Schaktman, who began here in late September.

Some set a much wider net, estimating the Jewish community as made up of those people who were either born into or practiced Judaism at some point, and they place the number at up to 20,000 in Hawai'i — although they could be using as their measurement the number of people who buy matzoh at Passover. A 1999 Statistical Abstract was less generous with its figures, listing the number as 7,000.

Judaism has become higher in profile in the Islands since Gov. Linda Lingle began having her annual Passover seder, or dinner, at Washington Place.

Schaktman, speaking in the midst of the Jewish holy days — which began Monday night with Rosh Hashana and end Wednesday with Yom Kippur, the day of atonement — said Jews are accustomed to being in the minority.

"Only in this modern era, with the state of Israel, have Jews ever been the majority — even in Los Angeles and New York, which are rare centers of population," said Schaktman, who hails from New York. "In most cases, Jews are the minority. Our faith is not dependent on being the majority. In some ways, we're much better at being a minority than majority, because we have so much experience at it."

He called Hawai'i "more congenial" to its minority religions: "There's far less pressure and more acceptance for Jews as Jews."

Here, there's relatively little anti-Semitism, he said.

TURNING POINTS

Thirteen-year-old Matthew was marking a rite of passage as he thanked his family and accepted gifts, such as a "shabbat to go" box from a temple board representative. It was an honor three years in the making, with afterschool religious classes every Wednesday. But bar mitzvah also is a time that many in the Jewish community see as a drop-off point for its youth.

Last year, as the head of the temple's religious education program, Aronowitz established the Mitzvah Corps to help bridge the gap between seventh-graders, who tend to scatter to the four winds once the last bar-mitzvah gift envelope is opened, and high schoolers, who start a confirmation process.

Adolescence and young adulthood is a difficult transition time in all religious groups, a time when commitment can wane and the eye can start roving to new kinds of religious experience.

At the end of Matthew's bar-mitzvah service, Aronowitz and others reminded him that this is just the start of his journey in faith.

Both of Matthew's older sisters went through not only their bat mitzvahs but adult confirmation processes at Temple Emanu-El. The bright-eyed young women — Malka is 19, Rachel 22 — are often affectionate with their baby bro, petting him like a kitten, even as he tries to twist his body to slip away.

This is a turning point for the Haymers, too. While she doesn't like to be so far from her boyfriend, Rachel returned from Germany, where she is studying, for this auspicious occasion. Both she and Malka are now at Colorado College. Bea and David Haymer only have Matthew living with them in their two-story Hawai'i Kai townhome, where Bea sets the table for a sabbath dinner every Friday night. It's quieter these days — a loud kind of quiet.

Bea Haymer says later that she wishes she could have been a little more "in the moment" at the ceremony — it went past in a blur.

THE HAYMERS' STORY

Matthew's mother still finds herself surprised to be so taken with Judaism. She was raised Catholic, and wasn't interested in David Haymer, a serious-minded Jewish grad student, when they first met. David thought his Lothario-like roommate, Bea's then-teacher, was bringing around yet another cute coed. When Bea tried joking with David about the fruit flies she needed to study for a lab report, she found him impervious.

The fruit flies she kept in a jar kept dying before she could test them; David Haymer explained that they were starving.

"You're right! You can see their ribs!" she teased.

"Actually, flies have exoskeletons," he responded.

But once they started working in the lab together, both warmed to each other. Bea eventually converted. Now, a marriage and three children later, they are looking at the last phase in their parenthood.

INSIDE THE BAR MITZVAH

The bar mitzvah was a big day: Family came from the Mainland; Rachel and Malka practiced their Hebrew chant. When the ceremony would end, onlookers would line up to remark on their beautiful voices.

There are points in the ceremony when the Torah is taken from the ark and paraded up and down the aisles. People reach out with their prayer books to touch the sacred scroll. Some follow by pressing their prayerbooks to their lips.

During the Torah service, various members of the family either recite or chant the aliya (readings). Interspersed within the ceremony are times at which Matthew addresses the congregation.

Matthew stands before the audience and says, "While a small voice in my head says, 'Keep the money!' I've decided to help others," drawing a laugh. He intends to help the Red Cross, the American Cancer Society (his grandfather died from cancer), the Hawai'i Foodbank and, in what looks like a surprise, Easter Seals, a Christian group that helps children.

Matthew explains to the crowd that Easter Seals was one of the organizations that helped him become the vibrant young man standing before them today.

Though doctors had told his mother that Matthew could suffer from brain damage because of his difficult birth, he is full of promise. He has a few learning disabilities, such as dysgraphia (Matthew has a hard time writing legibly), but there's no reason why he won't head off to the same college his sisters attend. He someday hopes to own an airline company.

As part of the service, Matthew also reads from the Hebrew text, chants and steps aside so others can do the same. However, at one point during his reading, he "messes up," as he explains later. He comes to a full stop and looks at Aronowitz, his eyes as wide as saucers.

Aronowitz gives him a tiny wave of his hand and mouths the words, "It's all right."

Matthew is able to return to his reading.

At the end of the service, Temple Emanu-El tradition has it that the bar-mitzvah celebrant is showered with candy.

The week before, a young Iolani boy and friend of Matthew's held up his prayerbook as a shield, standing close to the bimah. Aronowitz managed to get a few ricocheted mini-Hershey bars in the face as some giggly youngsters pelted away. This week, however, Matthew gingerly stands in the middle of the platform, to give Aronowitz room to sing the closing chant, as the golden-paper candybars shower him.

He's been amazingly self-assured.

Aronowitz explained later that bar-mitzvah celebrants help lead the services the night before their ceremony.

"It helps get the nervousness out," he said.

At one point in the ceremony, Bea places around her youngest son's shoulder an embroidered white prayer shawl she has lovingly woven by hand. Matthew will wear it to services for the rest of his days.

"It's your father's and my hope that you will wear it in good health, and it will envelop you with hope," she tells him.

As she stands back to admire her handiwork, the hope for the next generation fills the rest of the temple, too.