Beth Martin Birky
Literature and Writing
Descriptive Paragraph
January 12, 2000

Frank Sturpe was never really on the inside or the outside of my home community. A converted Jew, a Mennonite pastor, evangelist, he was always a part of my home congregation and a friend of the family. During church, I'd see Frank's bald head, fringed with gray hair, turning and bobbing as he glanced around the sanctuary, noticing everyone who came in, giving a wave and a big toothy smile before turning back to the service. He always tracked me down after the service, and asked, in his lispy voice, "How is little Bessie?" Ignoring my discomfort, he would give me a big hug, and, with my head scrunched against his large belly, he'd inevitably say, "You know, don't you, that your father, bought me my first hat. We met on the sidewalk one cold, windy day, and your father said, 'Frank, you need a hat.' When I told him I couldn't afford one, your dad pulled me into Maiwurm's and bought me a gray felt hat. He's a generous man, your father."

Frank's stories were his hallmark. To my young, midwestern ears, Frank had an unusual cadence to his voice, an odd emphasis on words, and his stories usually emphasized his position as an outsider, telling about his conversion from Judaism, meeting his wife Sadie, and getting to know Mennonites. One of those stories about his past, in fact, was central to my first public acceptance of Jesus Christ. I was only 12 when I heard Frank preach at an evening worship session at Camp Luz, the small Christian camp where I and 50 other junior high youth were spending a week swimming in a muddy pond, painting plaster crosses, singing around a camp fire, and learning about God. The meeting hall was a long, narrow room and Frank, the featured speaker that evening, seemed far away as he stood at the pulpit. I was relieved to be seated in back where I could avoid one of his hugs.

Frank began his sermon on a spring day in Philadelphia, where he was playing jacks on the sidewalk with neighbor boys who were talking about someone named Jesus. Too shy to question his friends, Frank waited to ask his father who Jesus was. Seated quietly at the table with his family, Frank looked eagerly to his father for the answer and was painfully surprised by a blow that knocked him to the floor. His father towered over Frank's quaking body and hissed, "Don't ever mention that name in my house again." When, as a teenager, Frank decided to follow Jesus Christ, his orthodox Jewish family held a funeral service for him and even placed a grave stone in a cemetery with his name on it. To his family, Frank Sturpinski was dead.

Sitting in the heavy silence that followed Frank's story, I envisioned Frank as a terrified little boy, huddled on the floor under his father's shadow, punished for even asking about Jesus. I, on the other hand, had been taught "Jesus Loves Me" as a toddler, shown pictures of Jesus embracing the little children, been embraced by my own parents as we said good night prayers. When Frank offered an altar call at camp that night, I went forward along with other tearful campers and welcomed his warm embrace. Frank had chosen to leave behind his family, his home, his heritage in order to follow Christ. How could I turn away from Jesus?

When I think back to that night, I always think of Frank. But as I reflect back on him now, I wonder how he felt about the life he had chosen. Did he miss his family, his Jewish heritage, his own boyhood community? Did he feel comfortable in Orrville, Ohio, at Orrville Mennonite church and all the Mennonite churches where he told his story? Did he ever feel lost in between his Jewish upbringing and his Mennonite adulthood? Perhaps it says a lot about me and my community that I don't know the answer to those questions. I only know that Frank did not appear concerned about being on the inside or the outside.

Back to Home

Page maintained by Beth Martin Birky (bethmb@goshen.edu), 12 Jan. 2000