Train Tears: Learning to See the Sacred Everywhere
The Discovery
My friend Aaron experienced something extraordinary on a train in Switzerland. As the Alps came into view, he found himself moved to tears by their majesty. When he shared the story with me later, he described how the light played across the peaks, how the whole landscape seemed to unfold like a living prayer. Though he smiled self-consciously while telling me, there was something profound in his voice when he said, “you had to be there.”
I keep returning to Aaron’s experience on that train, not as an isolated emotional moment, but because I believe these encounters with overwhelming beauty might be revealing something profound about the nature of reality itself. These instances—when we find ourselves moved beyond words, beyond our usual composure—seem to open a window into deeper truths.
That’s why I’ve started practicing what I call “sophiological attention”: recognizing divine wisdom at work in everything—from mountain vistas to messy moments—and choosing to participate in its creative flow.
I’ve been thinking about Aaron’s train tears a lot lately, because I think he encountered something the Orthodox tradition has a name for: Sophia. Divine wisdom. Not wisdom as information or even insight, but wisdom as the living presence of the Divine woven through creation itself.
This is what I mean by sophiological attention: the practice of recognizing moments like Aaron’s—those breathless encounters with beauty that feel almost too much to bear—as more than just aesthetic experiences. What if they’re actually theological events? What if we’ve been having divine encounters all along without realizing it?
Let me be clear: this isn’t just mindfulness or aesthetic appreciation. Mindfulness teaches us to be present to what is. Aesthetic sensitivity helps us appreciate beauty. But sophiological attention is about recognizing divine wisdom actively at work—not just being present to reality, but participating in its deepest creative processes. It’s about seeing that those moments when beauty breaks through aren’t just psychological events but glimpses of reality’s true nature: a living web of divine presence and creative action.
The Tradition
The path to understanding sophiological attention runs through three key insights from modern theology:
Okay, bear with me while I introduce you to this wild Russian theologian named Sergius Bulgakov. (I know, not where you expected this to go.) He came up with this idea called sophiology, and honestly? It’s exactly what we need right now. His big insight was that divine wisdom isn’t just some abstract concept floating around in theological space—it’s the living thread running through everything. It’s what makes the world more than just dead matter bumping into other dead matter. It makes everything alive with meaning and presence.
But this raises an obvious question: if divine wisdom is everywhere, why don’t we see it?
This hits different in our current moment. Another thinker, Charles Taylor, points out how we modern folks have gotten really good at seeing everything as purely mechanical. We’ve stripped the magic out of the world. But here’s where it gets interesting: Richard Beck thinks Bulgakov’s ideas might help us get that magic back. Not by arguing ourselves into it (good luck with that), but by learning to spot what was there all along.
This leads us to a radical conclusion about reality itself.
This is where David Bentley Hart blows the whole thing wide open. In The Beauty of the Infinite, he suggests something that sounds almost ridiculous at first: what if those goosebump moments—when a violin note hangs perfectly in the air, when sunset turns clouds to fire—aren’t just pretty distractions from “real life”? What if they’re actually showing us what’s most real? What if reality itself, at its core, is more like that perfect violin note than like our daily power struggles and endless competitions?
But how do we actually access this deeper reality?
This is where Cynthia Bourgeault’s work becomes so practical. She helps us see God not as some distant figure, but as “the web, the energy, the space, the light” that connects everything. When we’re moved by beauty, she suggests, we’re not just appreciating something nice—we’re actually participating in what she calls the Trinity’s “flow and movement” through creation.
Think about that in terms of Aaron’s train moment. He wasn’t just looking at pretty mountains. He was, without realizing it, joining in the divine creative process. His tears were a form of participation in God’s ongoing creative work.
The Psalms hint at this: “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.” This isn’t just about God’s omnipresence. It’s about panentheistic reality—everything contained within the divine life itself.
In other words, sophiological attention isn’t just about seeing beauty—it’s about recognizing ourselves as active participants in divine creativity. Every time we’re moved by beauty, we’re fulfilling our human vocation: making divine glory visible through our embodied response.
The Practice
All this theology is fascinating, but here’s the real question: how do you actually live this way? If beauty really is a window into divine reality—if Aaron’s tears reveal something true about how the world works—then it should change more than just how we look at mountains. It should transform how we move through every moment.
Here’s what I’m discovering: when you practice seeing beauty as divine participation, you start recognizing that same divine presence everywhere—even in life’s messiest moments. Because if God’s creative presence can flow through Swiss mountains, why not through human struggle too?
Here’s what happens when you practice catching glimpses of divine wisdom in beauty. Your eyes adjust. Like learning to see in the dark.
Start with sunsets and mountain views. Easy stuff. Then something shifts. You start spotting that same presence in stranger places. A child’s tantrum. A tense meeting. Beauty teaches us what’s really there. So when things get ugly, we remember. This too is shot through with divine presence. Even if it’s harder to see.
You don’t force yourself to find beauty in difficult moments. That’s not the point. Instead, let the beautiful moments teach you. They show you what reality is actually like at its core. Feel that deep-down truth once—that everything is held in divine creativity—and you start seeing differently.
Then you have a choice. React to the surface chaos. Or respond to the deeper reality you’ve learned to recognize.
This is what makes sophiological attention different from general mindfulness practices. We’re not just trying to be more aware or accepting of what is. We’re learning to recognize and participate in the divine creativity that’s always unfolding—whether through mountain vistas or toddler tantrums.
Take parenting. (I know, we’re jumping from Swiss mountains to toddler meltdowns—stay with me.) Picture this: it’s 7:43 AM, I’m already late for a meeting, and my four-year-old is sprawled on the floor, red-faced and howling because his socks have “bumpy lines” in them. I have two options. I can go with my sleep-deprived instinct (the one currently screaming along with him in my head) and see this as pure manipulation. Or I can try this whole sophiological attention thing: maybe this is just a tiny human whose nerve endings are lighting up like Christmas trees over a sensation I can’t even feel.
It shows up at work too, where I spend most days staring at spreadsheets and project management dashboards (not quite the Swiss Alps, but stay with me). I can play the usual office games—viewing every meeting as a battlefield, every promotion as a zero-sum game. Or I can try something weird: what if even this fluorescent-lit corporate space is shot through with divine presence? What if that annoying project meeting could be an opportunity for actual human connection? (I know how this sounds. Trust me, I roll my eyes at myself sometimes.)
And then there are what I’ve started calling “Aaron moments” in my decidedly un-Swiss daily life. That first sip of morning coffee when the light hits the steam just right. The way certain songs can make my cramped home office feel suddenly vast with possibility. My daughter’s unexpected laugh during bedtime chaos that cracks through my grumpy-parent facade and reminds me what’s real. Small moments, sure. But maybe they’re not just nice experiences—maybe they’re little windows into how things actually are, underneath all our busy pretending.
I’m practicing what Bourgeault calls “attention of the heart”—not just noticing these moments but recognizing them as encounters with the divine flow she describes. Not worship OF the Trinity but participation IN the Trinity’s own creative movement through creation.
The Invitation
Here’s what I’m discovering: re-enchantment doesn’t happen through argument. It happens through practice. Through learning to see what Psalm 139 insists is already everywhere present—the divine web that animates everything that is.
The world isn’t divided into sacred and secular spaces. Everything is held within the divine life, as Bourgeault describes. The question isn’t whether God is present in Aaron’s train journey or my morning coffee or my child’s meltdown. The question is whether we’ve developed the eyes to see, the attention to recognize the sophiological reality we’re always already swimming in.
This is ancient wisdom, but it offers surprisingly practical tools for modern living. When we learn to see aesthetic experience as theological participation, when we practice the most generous interpretation, when we choose the ontology of peace over violence—we’re not escaping the “real world.” We’re entering it more fully.
We’re learning to inhabit the world as it actually is: shot through with divine wisdom, held in Trinitarian flow, grounded in beauty rather than brutality.
The train from Strasbourg to Switzerland is still running. The light is still hitting the mountains in ways that can bring tears to your eyes, if you have the attention to see. The question is whether we’re willing to get on board.
This is exploratory territory for me. What I’m calling “sophiological attention” is something I’m still learning to practice. But I’m convinced that this ancient wisdom tradition offers resources for re-enchanted living that we desperately need. The theological tradition suggests we’re not just observers of beauty but participants in divine creativity itself. That changes everything about how we show up in the world.