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The majority of Bay Area Jews neglect or even consciously shun synagogues for most of the year.

But in a spectacle as mysterious and predictable as the migration of salmon, those same Jews return to their spiritual birthplaces for a few days every fall.

Rabbis try to explain the annual Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur influx. Sporadic servicegoers offer their own reasons.

For Michael Greenberg, it's simply a time to be with family and see old friends. For Robin Dubner, it's a way to pacify the woman she loves. For Alex Hochman, Carol Inkellis and Don Marks, it's a ritualized chance to reflect on their lives.

"Yom Kippur — there's definitely a feeling of cleansing yourself. And Rosh Hashanah — it's just to celebrate the new year and get the year off to a good start," said Hochman, a 25-year-old stockbroker who attended San Francisco's Congregation Sherith Israel while growing up and returns each year for the High Holy Days.

During the rest of the year, Hochman takes part in Passover seders and Chanukah parties. But weekly services simply aren't a part of his life.

"I just don't think about it the rest of the year," he said. "I'm not all that religious. Among my friends, I'm the norm…It's not the temple's fault."

Jam-packed sanctuaries and unfamiliar faces at Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are an undisputed phenomenon.

To accommodate the crowds, some congregations remove partitions that divide the sanctuary from the social hall. Others hold double services. A good number abandon their own buildings altogether and meet in auditoriums or churches with massive sanctuaries.

Spiritual leaders have mixed feelings and offer various explanations for the drawing power of the Days of Awe.

"The High Holy Days are what one might describe as a Jewish baseline. Maybe there's something deep inside most Jews that cannot be concealed. At this time of year, there's more awareness of that heavenly spark," said Rabbi Sheldon Lewis of Palo Alto's Conservative Congregation Kol Emeth.

Avram Davis sees it in a different light.

"Americans and American Jews tend to like intense but short experiences. And they like events," said Davis, co-director of Berkeley's Renewal-oriented meditation and learning center Chochmat HaLev. "You do it. Bam! It's intense. You're outta here."

Committing to a regular practice of Judaism is more like maintaining a relationship, Davis added. For someone to put energy into a relationship, "it has to be really clear internally that this is good for them.

"And it has to have some component of pleasure."

That is apparently the missing link for many sporadic servicegoers.

Inkellis, a 44-year-old Fairfax newspaper proofreader, looks forward to High Holy Day services each year. She appreciates the repetitive ritual and loves wishing everyone a "sweet and fruitful new year."

She has tried unsuccessfully to feel the same enthusiasm about attending regular weekly services.

"In the past, I've felt guilt about it. I'd like to do it. But when I do, I don't feel so much better. I don't feel any more Jewish or spiritual or connected to anything or anybody," said Inkellis, whose family joined San Rafael's Congregation Rodef Sholom nine years ago.

It's not as though she has no connection to her synagogue. For several years, she was part of the social action committee. Her son celebrated his bar mitzvah there two years ago. She now edits the synagogue's monthly newsletter.

But instead of attending services each week, she has Shabbat dinner with her husband and two children on Friday nights. She then takes her 10-year-old daughter to dance lessons on Saturday mornings.

Her choices aren't atypical.

"We live in a society that has so much distraction," Lewis said. "People can be swallowed up in this society."

The expense of Jewish affiliation and the failure of religious education also contribute to the problem, the rabbi added.

Rabbi Melanie Aron of Reform Congregation Shir Hadash in Los Gatos said those who lack so-called "Jewish skills" feel intimidated in synagogues.

"People don't like to do what they don't do well," Aron said. "It's so foreign to them. They feel uncomfortable. At the High Holy Days it's even worse."

Rabbi Ari Cartun, who for 21 years organized the Stanford Hillel High Holy Days services that drew thousands of Jews, agreed.

If someone seeks a connection to Judaism but lacks a strong Jewish education, Cartun doesn't recommend High Holy Days services as a point of re-entry.

Instead Cartun, who now leads Congregation Etz Chayim in Palo Alto, would prefer that those Jews attend a Friday-night Shabbat service, a Simchat Torah celebration or a Purim Megillah reading.

"They're short, peppy and fun," he said.

For some, however, the service ambiance has nothing to do with their choices. They simply don't mesh with organized religion.

Greenberg, a 31-year-old San Francisco attorney, attends High Holy Days services as a way to spend time with his family and reconnect with old friends.

"I don't necessarily feel a religious obligation," he said. "Those days don't really mean anything to me. I don't feel my redemption comes from the one day I spend in temple. I'm not comfortable with some of the religious aspects of those services. I don't see myself as prostrating myself before God."

Dubner, a 43-year-old attorney in Oakland, likewise has attended services at San Francisco's Congregation Sha'ar Zahav for the past five years in order to please her partner.

"To me, it's one of those things in a relationship…one of those give-and-take things," she said.

Once she gets there, Dubner said, she actually enjoys herself. "The services, especially the Yom Kippur service, are so beautiful. How could I help but get something from it? It's not like I'm suffering," she said.

But the rest of the year, she can live without the ritualized prayer. "I guess it doesn't touch me spiritually. I'm not interested in any type of organized religion," Dubner said.

Marks, in contrast, likes "everything Yom Kippur is about." He enjoys reflecting, taking off work, fasting, repenting. Yet the San Franciscan doesn't get much out of organized religion the rest of the year.

"For some people, it's their community. It's not my community," said Marks, a 27-year-old operations manager for an online travel agency.

He doesn't see this situation as permanent. "Absolutely it will change when I have a family," said Marks, who is a chapter adviser of Alpha Epsilon Pi, a predominantly Jewish fraternity at U.C. Berkeley. "I will want to meet other Jewish couples with kids."

Marks will likely fit a common demographic pattern. Several rabbis said Jews who rarely come to services other than for the High Holy Days tend to be young adults who don't yet have children, or older adults whose children are beyond b'nai mitzvah age.

"They're people for whom prayer for its own sake was never made part of their spiritual makeup," said Rabbi Howard Zack of Oakland's Orthodox Beth Jacob Congregation.

He also sees a noticeable number of secular Israelis who suddenly feel a spiritual call each fall.

Despite the good intentions of sporadic servicegoers, rabbis and worshippers themselves acknowledge problems.

Aron, before she came to her Los Gatos congregation, served as rabbi for a synagogue in Brooklyn. A thousand Jews would show up for High Holy Day services, but synagogue membership eventually grew so small that the congregation had to give up its building.

"All the people in the neighborhood were upset because they couldn't buy tickets for High Holidays," she said. "It really hit home."

Added Hochman: "If you go twice a year, at least realize it's a 52-week operation."

While Kol Emeth's Lewis said he loves the solidarity of a large group of Jews, he acknowledges the challenge in maintaining the joyful mood when a good number of the participants aren't following the service.

"It's almost impossible to kind of weld that group together in such a short time to be fully participatory," Lewis said.

Rabbis could take the attendance highs and lows personally, but several said they try to keep the phenomenon in perspective. "I think you have to be understanding of who people are and where people are," said Rabbi Herbert Morris of Congregation Beth Israel-Judea in San Francisco. "It's better than no times a year as far as I'm concerned."