When I was a child, our family would gather Chanukah in the living room. The room was full of light and warmth. My brother and I took turns lighting the candles, and our parents told us that the menorah teaches that right can overcome might, and light can dispel darkness.

That was many years ago. As a lawyer and community worker, I had traveled far afield from Jewish tradition. I hadn't lit a menorah in years, not even thought of it. Yet, I felt a need to explore my Jewish roots, which is why I found myself walking toward Union Square in San Francisco one cold December night. My family was going to light a menorah, and not just any menorah. This one was 30 feet high.

The Square is empty and cold. Street people stake out the benches, the scene is a letdown. Then I see a flurry of movement. There's the menorah! I point it out to my daughter, Sarah. As we approach it, it grows bigger in perspective until we're in front of it, looking up at its simple, elegant form. Parked in a corner is a camper with a paint job that reads "Mitzvah Mobile" and "Chabad House." Berkeley Chabad House reaches out to share Jewish celebrations with all Jews, from the very religious to the totally non-religious. Consequently, they're here. Consequently, I am a welcome guest, I who haven't seen, much less lit, a menorah in over a decade.

I am swept up in a bear hug of a greeting by a tall young man in black hat, long coat and bright red beard. "Shalom Aleichem," he says. "Greetings, brother!" Meet Yosef Langer from Chabad House.

There's still time until the lighting, so we wait. Beyond the little circle of activity at the menorah, the Square still belongs to the night and street people.

Some Square-dwellers come over to check out these strange newcomers. It's not a comfortable interaction. One fellow is openly hostile. A tall man with black leather coat draped over his shoulders, loudly proclaims his non flattering opinions of this event, as well as of Israel, Zionists, Jews. My urban paranoia takes hold and a wave of fear comes and goes. It doesn't contribute to a festive atmosphere. It upsets my fantasy picture. Reality always does.

I am caught up in these different strains of fantasy, reality, warmth, hostility, celebration, resentment. I wonder, Why are we here? Celebrations like this are more of a private affair, aren't they? Like my childhood memories, home and hearth, in the living room. But in Union Square?

When I look up, there are many more people than I noticed just a few minutes before. The beginnings of a crowd, quite an interesting crowd.

Easily four generations here tonight. The little circle of 45 minutes ago has grown to fill over half the Square. Everyone is talking to his friends, or to newly found friends.

It's a full five minutes before the emcee on the platform can get everyone's attention. The man at the mike, black hat, black beard and big smile, is Rabbi Chaim Drizin. When the crowd finally quiets down he speaks, giving a little introduction about Chanukah, and launches into a story / lesson.

The Rabbi finishes the story to a round of applause, and the nicest part is that this story has the effect of drawing the crowd closer, making the Square a more "homey" place. We seem to be joined in a moment of shared intimacy. Almost like family. Is it possible that this menorah lighting mirrors my childhood recollection? Only the family is much bigger.

Yosef, my red-bearded friend from earlier on, plunges into the crowd carrying high a lit torch so that each of us can touch it and join the lighting. He moves slowly, allowing each one to join, to make contact.

Children are lifted to touch the torch. There is no pushing. All are confident of being included. I lift Sarah and she touches the torch for a moment.

As the torch moves on, Rabbi Drizin sings and urges the crowd to join. Shema Yisrael-Hear O Israel, the L-rd our G-d, the L-rd is One. The words echo the feeling of the passing torch-the unity of this body of Jewish people of different ages, types, cultures, languages, affirming their connection to each other and to their faith.

Singing along and watching the pro gress of the torch, I am suddenly aware that a man is pushing through the crowd toward Yosef. It is the man who angrily proclaimed his anti-Jewish feelings. He approaches Yosef. I tighten. Does he want to try to stop Yosef, grab the torch? It seems crazy, but who knows...?

He is closer now, almost at Yosef's side. From the man's face, it is impossible to read his intent. He is next to Yosef, and reaches up. He puts his hand on the torch, not just touching but holding it tight. Yosef stops. Here is where fantasy meets reality, I think.

I see this clearly. Yosef looks directly into the man's eyes, gently puts his other hand on the man's arm, and gives a quiet nod. A gesture of recognition, a request for mutual respect. The man's hand relaxes its hold.

Yosef moves on. The man recedes to the crowd's edge. Looking at him later, I see he is singing.

The quality of that interaction stays with me and begins to pull together the different feelings I've experienced here. I feel that this event is the essence of Chanukah, when the Maccabees vanquished foreign armies, when a tiny supply of oil lasted eight days. When, light reigned and darkness was driven back, figuratively and literally.

But behind the magical moment when the light drives back the darkness, perhaps there is always a lifetime, a generation, an eon, of hard work and careful investment. That builds our knowledge and awareness and spiritual strength, until we can burst forth in a moment of need and make manifest the "magic," the light, the Divine spark, that is always latent within us and around us.

Completing his circuit with the torch, Yosef hands it to Rabbi Drizin, who climbs into the cherrypicker to the top of the menorah. The blessings are said and the first candle is lit this first night of Chanukah.

For the first time in 15 years there was a menorah in my home. We lit it together and put it in Sarah's window, to shine light out into the darkness.

Reprinted from the San Francisco Chronicle.