Why Are We Here?

“He has made everything beautiful in His time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts, except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NKJV)

"The question" blew into Laredo, Texas, that morning sometime in late October 2001. This is the beautiful time of year in South Texas when the sun shines but doesn't fry everything left outside. The Divine Wind was blowing philosophically as I sipped my Chi Tea latte, which had a hint of vanilla. I had one foot still in my raw black coffee days, but was moving away from my inner Neanderthal man and stepping into the civilized "modern man." But that old man was never far from me.

We started going to a local coffee shop. It had its own kind of personality—the kind that said, "You are welcome here to sit and relax as long as you want." You get to know the "regulars," from cops to clowns, and baristas to bandidos.

The walls were painted in colorful modern art shapes and designs. We could always find overstuffed chairs if we didn't want to sit in rigid chairs with small tables in between. Whether it was high-octane black coffee or the occasional Chi Tea Latte with vanilla, the aroma was unmistakable as you walked in. There was always background noise—white noise—that blended music and conversation. You could always hear what you needed to hear, including your order being called out at the bar.

This is where Randy and I spent several hours per week. Such was the life of university professors. In fact, we could imagine having similar conversations to those held by our philosopher and university colleagues who frequented coffee shops in years past.

Meeting Buddha Santa Claus

Randy was the first person I met at Texas A&M International University. I came to the university the day before my scheduled interview to do some advanced recon of the college where I'd be teaching in the counselor education program. I walked into the open multi-floor building, Pellegrino Hall, and pressed the elevator button. The elevator door opens, and a man steps out as I step in. He said, "Can I help you find anyone?"

I was surprised, not so much by the question, but by who was asking it. A man about 5'5" tall and about as wide. He wore fluorescent yellow sneakers, shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. He looked like Buddha with a shaved head, long flowing beard, gauges in his ears, red glasses, and a smile that said, "I'm Santa Claus." This was my first encounter with a professional colleague, friend, and forever brother.

Randy and I had a lot in common—naturally curious, philosophical, and committed to our academic disciplines (his special education and mine, counselor education), as well as our teaching and research agendas. Most importantly, we shared a passion for our graduate students. Our coffee shop conversations never strayed too far from how we could better prepare them for their future careers and life. It was the latter that added fuel to the fire of discussions about all things religious. He was raised Baptist, later became an ordained Episcopal priest, but by the time we became friends, he was a Buddhist.

Every coffee shop conversation we had was like opening a new gift—a gift that you were never sure if a clown would spring out, a minor bomb would detonate, a mystic from centuries ago would appear, or a peace and presence that reassured each of us that life would be okay. Remember, this was right after the Twin Towers fell and 9/11 changed America forever.

My Existential Wasteland

Back then, I was cooler than lukewarm, not so much toward God, but more toward Jesus. I was deeply entrenched in secular counseling and psychology, and I found that the theories I learned and taught were remarkably pragmatic in practice. While I agreed with Carl Jung that "Called upon or not, God will be present," I couldn't grasp the usefulness of the Scriptures, and, frankly, Jesus wasn't as interesting as Nietzsche. I was especially drawn to the existential search for meaning in a sometimes meaningless world.

My mind was still blown from my own ICBM and tactical nuclear duty. I had served as a U.S. Air Force Missile Launch Officer during the Cold War in the early 1980s, spending time 50 feet underground in Launch Control Centers, staring at banks of green lights that displayed "Strategic Alert" on the Missile Status Indicator Panel. I left that world of Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) and the real possibility of Limited Nuclear Options (LNOs) because I didn't support a "first strike" option. I'd wrestled with ultimate meaning questions in a red chair underground, contemplating the weight of civilization in my hands, wondering "Why are we here?" when the answer might involve ending everything.

Then our country was attacked on 9/11, and I couldn't do anything about it. It was a surreal experience. After watching each tower drop like vertical dominoes, all I could think of the “enemy” was "kill them all, let God sort them out." The rage was visceral, the helplessness complete. Those "ultimate meaning" questions that surface in a coffee shop are different from pondering life's purpose while staring at green lights that could launch nuclear missiles, but the question remained the same: Why are we here?

If I didn't mention it before, many of us entered the counseling profession as a form of "not-so-cheap" therapy. I was one of those who questioned God's motives for what He did, or perhaps He had a laissez-faire attitude toward humanity, like parents who let their children do as they pleased. These wonderings, questions, rants, and the full spectrum of emotions that accompanied them were common in our coffee shop conversations.

The Question That Wouldn't Settle

Although Randy and I could be seen at Starbucks in the afternoon, it was the mornings that we were known as regulars. It was during one of these beautiful Laredo mornings that we encountered the question that would change everything.

Randy, pondering the unknown concoction in his cup, had a heart of pure love and respect. Always. As with most days that called for a coffee break, I don't recall a specific trigger that set it off. There was always the usual politics of higher education, and changing policies and procedures dictated by bureaucrats. It all came with the existential landscape—both the highs and the lows.

Randy and I had been discussing high-stakes testing and the gatekeeper it was for our students. Randy looked at me and said, "Why do our students need to be in class?" The question morphed into a more profound "Why are we here?" It becomes more personal when the sights are aimed at oneself than at others. It's still sobering, but even more serious—more real.

We each felt the weight of the question. Although we tried to side-step it, the Wind was not going to settle without a suitable response. What "suitable" looked like immediately, we didn't know; however, we each had to teach at 4:30 PM that day, so we didn't have all day!

The overstuffed chair I sat in at that corner coffee shop was red—the same color as my chair in the Launch Control Center. But gazing at black coffee as you ponder life's ultimate meaning elicits a different response than staring at a bank of green lights displaying "Strategic Alert."

We tried the academic dance first. Existentialists had their answers—Sartre, Camus, and their exploration of absurdity and freedom. Nihilists had theirs—Nietzsche's declaration that God was dead and we had killed Him. Buddhists and other religious traditions offered their own neat, packaged responses about enlightenment and transcendence.

The problem? All these answers felt theoretical, academic, and distant from real life. As Yogi Berra also said, "In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice, there is."

The Practical Breakthrough

So we reframed the question. Instead of asking "Why are we here?" in some grand, cosmic sense, we asked, "Why are we here, right now, teaching and learning with our graduate students?"

The obvious answers came first:

  • We receive salaries to teach

  • Students pay tuition to learn

  • Grades depend on attendance

  • Learning happens through interaction

  • Relationships form that last lifetimes

  • Knowledge and skills develop for real-world practice

These reasons made sense. They were practical, measurable, logical. But something was still missing.

The “Magic” Revelation

Then it hit us—the secret ingredient that transforms ordinary classroom interactions into life-changing moments. Magic.

Not Harry Potter magic, but something far more profound. Those moments when a struggling student suddenly grasps a concept that will transform their career. When a class discussion sparks an insight that changes someone's entire worldview. When hearts and minds connect in ways that feel divinely orchestrated.

Here's what I discovered: If you weren't there, you missed the magic. You couldn't make it up with extra credit or by reading someone's notes. As Heraclitus said, "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river, and he is not the same man."

But friends, I need to tell you something. In 2001, I was spiritually asleep. I called myself a Christian, but I was colder than lukewarm. I wasn't going to church. I hadn't even read the entire Bible. I was going through the motions of faith while missing the very presence of God in my everyday life.

What I was calling "magic" in that coffee shop conversation was actually something much more enlightening—divine appointments. God was showing up in ordinary classrooms, using ordinary people to accomplish His extraordinary purposes.

Every time a student's eyes lit up with understanding, God was there. Every meaningful conversation, every moment of breakthrough, every connection that seemed too perfect to be a coincidence—these weren't accidents. They were appointments scheduled by the Creator of the universe.

The Bridge Begins

Here's what I've come to understand: God wastes nothing. All my passion for seeing students succeed, every skill I developed as a professor and counselor, every moment of joy I felt when I said "I have the best job on the planet!"—and yes, even my time in that red chair underground contemplating nuclear warfare and humanity's purpose—God was preparing me for something even greater. He was building a bridge between who I was and who He was calling me to become.

The first step across that bridge was no less important to God than the steps I take now as I follow Him with trust and obedience. Those existential questions born in Launch Control Centers and coffee shops alike weren't spiritual detours—they were divine preparation.

That morning in late October 2001, sitting in a red overstuffed chair with my Chi Tea latte, watching Randy ponder his mysterious concoction, I experienced my first conscious recognition of divine appointments. I didn't have the language for it yet. I didn't understand the theological implications. But something had shifted.

The question "Why are we here?" had found its answer, even if I didn't fully grasp it yet. We're here for the magic—the divine appointments that God orchestrates in our everyday moments, whether in coffee shops or classrooms, Launch Control Centers or university halls.

The journey from that lukewarm professor wrestling with existential questions to someone who could recognize God's presence in ordinary life had begun.

I just didn't know it yet.

"Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light." Matthew 11:28-30 (NKJV)