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The divisions of heaven and earth have never been clear-cut in Judaism. The limit of how long a child can sit during synagogue services is easier to predict.

When a wave of young couples and their 30 young children joined San Francisco's Conservative Congregation B'nai Emunah, it became apparent that a division of some sort was in order.

No ordinary mechitzah would do.

The parents set up a cooperative child-care room adjacent to the sanctuary. Not wanting to cut off the youngsters from the sights and sounds of services, they installed a glass door between the two rooms and rigged a speaker that pumps the sounds of the sanctuary into the child-care room.

Now, the children amble up to the glass to see what Mom and Dad are up to. Kids who are learning to sing Hebrew in unison during Sunday school can overhear that even adults pray out of tune.

And the parents, with a single glance, can rest assured that their kids are no longer disruptive.

Well, maybe.

Kids weren't exactly turning their paper swords into plowshares last week as they engaged in mock duels, whacked one another with siddurim and bellowed out a cacophonous Mah Tovu.

On the other hand, nobody was complaining of boredom.

Elizabeth Halperin, mother of a baby and a 5-year-old, said, "This [setup] is much better. It used to be hard to bring your kids to shul. They were running around in the [curtained-off] social hall and we'd try [in vain] to keep them quiet."

Ah, quiet.

On a recent Sunday, about 18 children gather in the glass-door room for religious school while their parents browse and shmooze at a Chanukah bazaar in the social hall.

Whether it's the rain or the excitement of praying in front of each other, kiddy jitters bounce off the walls. They yell and stage mock sword battles with retractable paper batons left by Chanukah Harry.

A group of 8-to-11-year-old boys lines up in front of a miniature Torah on the table and yells the Mah Tovu, the prayer that welcomes worshippers into the sanctuary.

"Are we being an Orthodox shul, only boys going up?" jokes teacher Jim Wilson while a sandy-haired boy continues yelling in monosyllabic drone.

"Ah, are you going to say the Mah Tovu?" Wilson asks the boy.

The youth shakes his head curtly.

"No? I kinda think you want to," the patient teacher prods.

Someone pipes up, "Why isn't the Torah in its ark?"

"Someone stole the Torah," enjoins Nathan Nounou, 5 1/2, his hands on his head.

Another boy whacks a girl on the head with his siddur. The rain begins to pour.

Suddenly, all the kids rush to the glass door and peer through the glass. Bazaar browsers are spilling from the social hall into the sanctuary, where members of the sisterhood have set up stations for chair massages, face painting, cookie decorating and trampoline jumping. A couple of dads fry latkes in the kitchen.

"I don't care what they're doing," Wilson calls out.

"I…care…what…we're…doing," he says, enunciating each word crisply.

Later, Ben Djavaheri, 11, explains that the younger ones are the real troublemakers, always looking for their parents through the window in the door.

"They're spoiled." And he should know – he's tried his best to discipline them in the child-care co-op.

Despite the distractions, Djavaheri says the glass door and speaker system are cool because he can hear the adults pray while he babysits "the noisemakers" twice a month.

"In Hebrew school, we sing in the same tune but in services everyone sings in a different tone."

Adds Dan Nordson, 11, "Some people have different kinds of religious tunes."

"We get confused," Djavaheri explains. "Many [congregants] are older. They're doing it professionally and we're doing it the kid way."

Doing more things the kid way was needed at B'nai Emunah when young families arrived at the congregation. On Shabbat, Rabbi Ted Alexander plays Pied Piper with the Torah, luring kids to the bimah on Shabbat with chocolate bars or other goodies to sweeten Judaism.

Meanwhile, the Sunday-schoolers settle into a Chanukah sing-along and the older kids read a play, all the while throwing anxious glances through the door. The bazaar is still there.

At the end of two hours, they've survived. They spill out the glass door into the sanctuary to jump on the blow-up trampoline and decorate cookies.