Homily by Fr. Richard Sparks, C.S.P. for the Mass of Resurrection for Fr. David Valtierra, C.O.

MASS OF THE RESURRECTION
For Fr. David Valtierra, C.O.

As Sir Winston Churchill, the wartime Prime Minister of England, was aging (in his 80s & 90s), he, his family and staff crafted funeral arrangements and filed them away under the code name “Operation Hope Not.” I confess that’s how I felt some two years ago when David Valtierra called me on the phone – first to let me know he was battling cancer – and second to ask “if and when the time comes,” would I be willing to preach his funeral homily? I said “yes” and then proceeded to kind of forget-about-it, hoping and praying he would beat the cancer, or put it in remission, and that “if and when” would be put off for many years to come, “operation hope not.”
You can imagine my surprise, shock, sadness, even chagrin when about four weeks ago I received in the mail a two-page outline, “Funeral Liturgy Planning” for Fr. David Valtierra, C.O. I was on email and then the phone immediately. It was a tender and tearful phone call. "So, David, since you sent the funeral plan, I'm guessing the cancer is back and 'if & when' is coming?” He brought me up to date on the last four-five months, the medical efforts to keep his recurring cancer at bay. It was a tender friend-to-friend conversation -- our last. No pretenses, no false hopes, no expectations of a Lourdes- or Fatima-like miracle. At the same time I found David to be about as self-possessed and peaceful as I can ever remember.
He spoke about recent visits and conversations – with his Dad and his sisters and brothers, in various groupings, or one-on-one – mostly here at the Oratory. Where there was need for apologies or healing, he said he felt that progress had been made on both sides. Where there were memories to be shared, “I love yous” to be said, and farewells to be fumbled into words and hugs, those were done too. He was so grateful and humbled by the care he’s received from his confreres in the Oratory (in particular you, Br. Joe Guyon) and for his friends here in Rock Hill and beyond. I wouldn't even try to mention all the names. Last night at the Vigil we heard some powerful stories of friendship and abiding care with and for Fr. David.
On the phone that day, a month ago, David told me that he was about as ready as anyone can be for death, for the end of this life, and for the hoped for, but elusive life-to-come. He had no fears about going to hell. Nor did he express any pious anticipations of deserving heaven. It wasn’t as if he thought that heaven would be a "cinch,” or “in the bag.” But David, all the years I've known him, has never worried much about eternal life. Life here, with each of you, is what really mattered to him. Life there, beyond the grave, he believed would follow naturally, be the inevitable next step or phase in his life of loving faith and faithful loving. While his hair thinned -- first to a widow's peak, then thinned by cancer -- and his face aged over the course of his illness, what I remember most about David Valtierra is his youthful zest for life, a kind of gentleness, a twinkle in his eye, a boyish, Peter Pan-like optimism, bordering on naivete. He seemed to model the hope that come what may, we can face it, we can make it though, and eventually all shall be well, even if not as we originally planned. In this Spirit, David was a spiritual seeker himself and often a spiritual guide and mentor for others, always tinged with an air of optimism and a pinch of hope.
So he chose for us the reading from Jeremiah. We read, "Israel (God’s chosen community) will always be safe, never pass away." Yahweh God provides the sun in the daytime and the moon and stars at night. Just as the heavens are beyond our grasp and we can never fully understand the height, breadth, and depth of God's creation, so too God’s love, God’s abiding, never-ending fidelity seems beyond our comprehension.
There’s a phrase that pops up in the Old Testament, which we often misinterpret. It speaks to how unfathomable God's loves is for each of us. The phrase is “Fear of the Lord.” Despite some of the threats of hell and fears about mortal sin that some of us grew up with in former Catholic days, the phrase "fear of the Lord" never meant that we should be scared, worried, or afraid of God’s wrath. No, “fear of the Lord” has always meant the same thing Jeremiah is saying, and which David wanted us to hear this morning. God’s love and presence is abiding and awesome. “Fear of the Lord” really means “standing in awe before God’s majesty,” no worries, but an abiding unshakable sense of peace, a kind of peace the world cannot give. It's a grace.
In our final phone chat David said that having cancer, now losing the fight against cancer, having to “let go and let God” was ironically a blessing, good for him. Letting go of campus ministry and teaching at Winthrop, then during Lent having to let go of his preacher and presider role at the Oratory Church -- he said both of these were hard at first. He, all of us, tend or like to think we're irreplaceable. Yep, David had an ego. He knew he was talented. He didn’t like to lose or be thwarted in his plans. But life has a way of interrupting, sometimes even checkmating our best laid plans. I think in his final months, he became a bit more like St. Peter, once the keeper of the keys, who finally had to let go, to let others dress him, tie his belt, and lead where he didn't always want to go. Not exactly "easy come, easy go," but as the end approached David got better at letting go. A good lesson for us all, now and at the end: [sing] "Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. . . ."
David Valtierra was a uniquely talented and gifted man -- poetically, artistically, musically, spiritually, pastorally, intellectually, organizationally. But I realize that he also knew how to gather around him other gifted people and to help folks cross-pollinate their talents, charisms and gifts for the good of all. Whether liturgically, spiritually, theologically, or in the cause of social justice, civil rights, and peace – Fr. David was a leader, a catalyst, a “Pied Piper of sorts” in this rural southern community in and around one modest-sized town -- Rock Hill, South Carolina.
I first met David sixteen years ago when he invited me down to the Oratory for a week-long summer course in morality. It was hot and humid. The air-conditioned room on the far end of the first floor was a Godsend. The people who attended the Institute over in the Pope John Center were vibrant, excited, enthusiastic Christians who believed in the Catholic Church as expressed by the Second Vatican Council. They wanted to put it into action, to make this Church of ours more a community, real and incarnate here in the Deep South, the Old South, the largely Evangelical and Baptist South. My own ministry has been hither, thither, and yon on the workshop circuit. I’ve lived and served all over the U.S. and Canada. I've often lived out of a suitcase or briefcase, dropping in for seminars, mini-courses, and such -- zoom in, try to do some good, and move along.
Fr. David Valtierra was far more rooted than I. He “belonged” and “belongs” to a community – actually several interwoven communities – in and around Rock Hill in north-central South Carolina. First and foremost David was a brother of the Rock Hill Oratory of St. Philip Neri (with its mixed bag of brothers and variety of ministries across the years and the decades since 1934). David was intimately involved in the ministry and outreach of the Oratory office, the Institute for Spirituality, its theology, bible, and spirituality programs (as coordinator, front man, teacher, speaker, convener, and host). He belonged also to the community of students and faculty at Winthrop University (as a campus minister, teacher and friend). The Peace Scholarship named in his honor is a fitting symbol of his legacy.
Fr. David belonged in a special way to St. Mary’s parish (a unique, African-based, multi-racial, multi-faceted community of faith). He preached the Good News there, but also he experienced it in return through the people's love in that small but vibrant Rock Hill parish. I know David helped out as needed at St. Anne’s and in various ways throughout the diocese of Charleston. Fr. David Valtierra belonged here. He appreciated culture, travel and the wider world, but at heart he was a homebody. His ministry, his view of Church, was people-centered, community-focused, rooted in and shaped by the people of Rock Hill. Sharing a crispy/greasy "Bubba He-man Breakfast" at Anna J’s, which we did every time I visited town, was not good for our cholesterol. But it was certainly good for our spirits . . . and for David's soul, this California and Hawaii boy (complete with those flowery beachcomber shirts), now fully transplanted, incarnated as a South Carolinian, priest, brother, and preacher.
So as our second reading I wasn’t at all surprised that David chose Acts of the Apostles, chapter two, the idealized version of what the Oratory, the church or a good parish can be and ought to be: “These remained faithful to the teaching of the apostles, to the community, to the breaking of the bread, and to prayer. The many miracles and signs worked through these apostles made a deep impression on everyone. The faithful all lived together and owned (or shared) everything in common. . . . Day by day the Lord God added to their number those destined to be saved.” David's most profound experiences of God, of peace, of life were lived in the Christian communities related to the Oratory. If there is any Christian song that I believe captures the flavor and Spirit of the Rock Hill Oratory community itself , of its Sunday night church, and outreach efforts it is: [Sing] “All are welcome, all are welcome, all are welcome in this place.” I think David and the brothers of the Oratory make it so.
For today’s Gospel Fr. David wanted us to hear the Road to Emmaus story. Amidst their grief at Jesus’ death, amidst their concern about what comes next, amidst their confusion about the resurrection and meaning of it all, they broke bread and shared a cup of wine – and recognized Jesus in their midst. Just as the second reading mentions their regular gathering for the breaking of bread, and the first reading confidently proclaims that God will always remain with us (in sunshine or in shadow) – we on our own road to Emmaus (genuinely grieving David’s death, pondering the meaning of resurrection) we gather to break bread and share a cup that we have shared with him so often, here, at St. Mary’s, at the Oratory church, and on the campus at Winthrop.
I think, I know why Fr. David invited me to preach this homily – not because I was his best friend. I’m not. He shared intimate moments and life with so many of you far more deeply than he and I shared in our Christmas cards and once-every-four-year contacts. But I believe that David and I have a "simpatico spirit." We're about the same age. We shared the same era of priestly formation and ferment together –in this church of the late 20th and early 21st century. We shared a vision, a hope, a confidence, and a commitment. I think we were and still are soulmates, brothers together in the Church of Jesus Christ, the Church of John XXIII and Vatican II, the Church of Philip Neri and Cardinal Newman, [pause] the Church of Joe Wahl, Joe Guyon, Fabio Refosco, and David Boone. The church of Sarah Morgan, Ed Guettler, Mary Schweitzer, Emile Russett, Katie Boyce, and all of you. It’s been a wonderful adventure and ride this past half-century plus. David Valtierra made it even more special, more intimate, more believable & worthwhile.
A closing image: our theology of the white baptismal garment traditionally has been that we bring it clean and unstained to the judgment seat of God at the end of our lives. That never rang true for me. Because to do so reminds me of the person in the Gospel story who buried his talent in the ground, later dug it up, and brought it to the master unused, untried, in that sense, perfectly white and clean. Jesus didn't want that! I think God really wants us to wear that baptismal garment (our faith) throughout our whole lives – to make a difference, to risk being fools for Christ's sake. Patch our lives as needed, wash our sins away a thousand times, bleach ourselves brighter when possible, and bring that tattered old garment -- our lives well-lived -- home to God. Then we can boldly say, “I lived one hell of life. I made a difference. And I loved every minute of it.” That’s Fr. David Valtierra, C.O., now and into eternity! Fare thee well, dear friend.


(Fr) Dick Sparks, C.S.P.