I'm sitting at Starbucks sipping my extra hot grande white chocolate mocha, listening to my fancy phone able to play iTunes and land jets at the local airport. I've opened the latest book about this week's new church ministry plan, ready to be on my knees once again. Destroying my euphoric moment is a group of teenagers who swarm my patio area. Most are wearing black clothes with tears in places no athletics would accomplish. All over their tattered jackets are pins and band names I have never heard of, nor do I believe actually exist. They have arrived on bike, skateboard, or some beat-up car that would make Al Gore cringe as the world becomes a big ocean. A few light up cigarettes, the others stand around doing nothing with their lives for the next hour. Then I think, "Man I wish I were a good youth pastor."