Tonight I want to revisit an experience whose status in modern culture is typically regarded with skepticism. The French call it the stroke of lightning (le coup de foudre). It’s the sudden descent/visitation of romantic love.

It’s not the same as getting into a meaningful relationship charged up by mutual attraction. It’s more like a change that “changes everything.”

Such a syndrome enjoyed recognition in medieval Europe. The whole of Dante’s Divine Comedy was apparently inspired by a wordless encounter with his one irreplaceable Beatrice. The doomed lovers, Tristan and Iseult, exemplified the coup de foudre. In both of these cases, there was no question or realistic possibility of marriage. The lovers were either already married or already affianced to someone else.

Within the medieval frame, the demands of the stroke of lightning and the requirements of actual life in the space-and-time world could not safely intersect. Some scholars have maintained that these stories of lovers-outside-of-history were not so much romantic tales as encoded representations of secret gnostic cults subversive of the doctrines and practices of official Christendom.

When I first read about it in college and later sensed its influence in the erotic dance of Parisian street life, I had no objection to the coup de foudre as such – only to the gnostic features that I sensed must be putting it into conflict with societal norms. If such a conflict were believed to inhere in romantic love, then that very belief would make it virtually impossible to find or retain in real life.

I knew that it wasn’t impossible. But the gnostic features of the literary exemplars made it seem impossible.

*. *. *

Jerry and I had been talking for months by phone, he in D.C. and I in Manhattan, before we met face to face. At that time, he ran an organization in Washington dedicated to the defense of high standards in higher ed, while I and another professor at Brooklyn College of The City University of New York were trying to save the college’s exemplary core curriculum from a novel plan – by which the new college president hoped to make his mark – to focus the curriculum on the borough of Brooklyn! The students knew more about Brooklyn than their professors did. They hadn’t come to Brooklyn College – some from all over the world – to learn about Brooklyn.

Jerry had been a philosophy department chairman, had served as head of the National Endowment for the Humanities, and he knew what kind of advice to give. I’d been in fights of my own and knew how to act on good advice. That we actually won our fight secured it a front-page story in The Chronicle of Higher Education. It also made several of the New York papers. The New York Post devoted a full-page editorial to the victory.

We had not yet met, but Jerry knew he was in love before I noticed that I was. But when – after an afternoon spent trading life stories over lunch at the Metropolitan Museum – he gave me the briefest goodbye kiss on his way to a taxi – I thought 

uh oh.

It was not just a kiss. The balance I had struck in my life at that point might actually be at risk!

Philosophers have techniques for getting above the down-rush of feeling and instead looking at life – even their own lives – through a contemplative lens. Back home, sitting cross-legged on my meditation pad, I drew on a technique developed by the phenomenologist Edmund Husserl for facilitating detachment. You observe your own consciousness without identifying with any of the elements observed in it. You just look – at the whole panorama. I’d done what Husserl called the “phenomenological reduction” before and generally found it instructive. Now, in my present situation, I was prepared to do it again.

But the oddest thing happened. Instead of maintaining the detachment of the observer, I seemed to myself to be falling into what I observed! The way one might tumble into a pit that opens beneath you while you’ve prepared yourself merely to look at it. I tried mentally to hold on to the rim of what seemed to be a cavernous downslide. But my mental grip was not powerful enough to pull me back up.

I was in it. Not above it. Not in any mode of detachment. The world was being repositioned around me, and I was being reconfigured within the new reality.

For better or worse, I have no habit of lying to myself. The question was, now what? I was inside an experience that I could not stand outside of. To what was it calling me?

By stages, I understood – Jerry and I would be realizing – that this love actually had the character of a summons. Whatever we did in response – the changes it might eventually require – would reshape our lives, separately and together.

Had we been deluded – had we mistaken infatuation for love – the result could have been tragic. Had we, on the other hand, decided it would be safer to override the summons of love, we would have mistaken depth for surface, bungled our lives and flattened our future horizons. 

We took what had befallen us as leading us aright.

And we weren’t mistaken.

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