Danielle Castillejo, Author at ��Ƶ of Theology & Psychology

Mary’s Song Overcomes

Danielle Castillejo — Thu, 19 Dec 2019 17:02:16 +0000

Dear Mary, mother of Jesus, I don’t have a song this morning.

No new news and nothing notable to think on beyond your song, Mary. The angel Gabriel visited you to announce a birth and I am sure you could have handled any announcement, but it wasn’t any announcement, and it would require you to walk in love and not fear.

I see fear everywhere, Mary. I see it on the faces of my neighbors, the political poster boards I drive by, the TV news headlines, my coworkers who face racism and classism, clients struggling to be free of pimps, and undisguised violence. If I focus here for too long, I forget you sang.

I don’t have a song this morning. The leftover night-lights of Seattle glitter. A future clear sky is lit by a pre-wakening sun in red, orange, and pink tones against the darkness still covering our Northwest morning. There are rows of vinyl bench seats covered in dirt from early morning commuters. Faces look down at books, screens, or the floor. People make subtle efforts to avoid the gaze of one another on the 6:20 a.m. ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle.

An hour earlier I was inside my frigid home, beneath warm covers, next to the regular breathing my husband of 17 years. We lay in silence. I felt hot tears spring to my eyes at the thought of leaving his presence and commencing the normal Monday routine. His breathing grumbles in protest of our coming separation. Supposedly, we are used to my graduate school routine. I am not. Sure, I look forward to classes, enjoy clients, and the adrenaline of the unknown; however, I don’t look forward to breaking this communion on Monday mornings.

So, instead of rising with the first round of alarm beeps, I lie still, suspending myself somewhere between his breathing and rising from bed.

Mary, How did you glorify a Lord who would put you in line to lose the most precious gift a mother could have – to use your first pregnancy to be something you would watch come to be a magnet of hate, terror, fear, and war-mongering? I scream as no one can hear me. I yell at systems contrived to keep some out and some in. Power’s greedy appetite does not hide in pretense, it does not need to.

I heard you say;
“Oh, how my soul praises the Lord.
47 How my spirit rejoices in God my Savior!
48 For he took notice of his lowly servant girl,
and from now on all generations will call me blessed.
49 For the Mighty One is holy,
and he has done great things for me.
50 He shows mercy from generation to generation
to all who fear him.”
(Luke 1:47-50)

And, you were chosen. You were humble. You said yes. You woke that morning and needed to be with someone, and so you went. You sang sweet tones of hope to your cousin, Elizabeth. You knew fear lurked at your door, with the political, social, religious and fledgling violence around you – someone needed to be willing to push back the darkness. You didn’t push it back because anyone doubted you. No, Mary, I see your belief, casting out fear, through the song and warrior resistance to every doubter who would soon come your way.

You spoke truth to your cousin – to the heavens – a truth that lingers in 2019.

I remember who and what lives inside of me.

“Jesus, Jesus, you make the darkness tremble. Jesus, you silence fear…Jesus, you make the darkness tremble…your name is alive, forever lifted high…. your name cannot be overcome….”

The Seattle skyline cannot overcome the bold beauty of majestic mountains and red skies on any winter morning, and especially not this one. Red and orange tones deepen behind the mountains announcing hope and proclaiming freedom. Beauty resonates in brilliance this morning, pushing back the cranes and furious construction continuing to shape the financial future of many on this early ferry. So, Mary, I find my song between brokenness and beauty, in the margins, in the pain. Your song hovers over deep waters, echoes in the trees, lifting my heart, increasing the anticipation of your son’s return.

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En Su Presencia Somos Preciosos, Pero en Los Estados Unidos No Somos Bienvenidos

Danielle Castillejo — Fri, 23 Aug 2019 20:43:58 +0000

Seguido escuchamos las llamadas para trabajar por la paz y reconciliación en nuestro país (los Estados Unidos) después de un acto de terrorismo –pero, ignoramos que nuestra misma cultura está uniendo con un temor del uno a otro. Nuestra cultura teme las diferencias, y eso alimenta “la supremacía blanca” porque nos quedamos callados mientras el mensaje de racismo de los que están en el poder sigue siendo el que la mayoría escucha. Danielle Castillejo, un estudiante de MA in Asesoramiento Psicología, comunica una llamada poderosa para nosotros: hablar de la verdad a los que están en el poder, y atraer conversaciones abiertas sobre las maneras en que “la supremacía blanca” se infiltra en todos aspectos de la vida. Si usted quiere leer este artículo en Ingles, haz click aquí.

Una canción de raíces cristianas dice que todos los niños son preciosos en los ojos de Dios, pero no es así en los Estados Unidos. En la narración de La Causa Perdida (explicado por ) nos encontramos después de la Guerra Civil de los Estados Unidos (1861-1865), la economía dependía de la labor de los esclavos de África, y después de la guerra, querían mantener su poder sobre los africanos (aunque ya eran libres). Esta narración idealizaba el sur de los Estados Unidos como virtuosa y heroica. En su libro, Jemar Tisby explica, “En la narración de La Causa Perdida, el sur de los Estados Unidos, quería nada más que estar solo para preservar su civilización idílica, pero atacaron agresivamente los del norte de los Estados Unidos – la parte del país sin Dios, llegaron a destruir una sociedad estable, llamando por a emancipación (los esclavos) e invitando a la intrusión del gobierno federal a una sociedad de pueblos pequeños y vida rural.” Esta narración alimentaba una forma de pensar peligrosa y violenta, “la supremacía blanca” y también organizaciones como el “Ku Klux Klan.”

La narración de La Causa Perdida ha sido hábilmente regurgitada como el slogan del Trump, “Haz América Genial de Nuevo.” Usando esta narración de un tiempo idealizado, nuestro presidente Trump ha jugado con los temores de muchos americanos blancos: una “invasión” de latinxs, van a robar trabajos, hacer delitos, y quebrantar la sociedad normal de los Estados Unidos. Trump ha introducido un mensaje viejo y peligroso: América ha sido lo mejor cuando estaba agobiando, como los días del pasado cuando los blancos tenían casi todo el poder sobre la economía, la espiritualidad y la sociedad. La América vieja mataba, violaba y deshumanizaba los esclavos (los africanos) antes de la guerra civil y después del fin de la guerra civil. Eso no paraba. América no titubea en hacer lo mismo a otras personas de color – las personas que no son blancas. No es que la circunstancia de América halla cambiado tanto en nuestros tiempos, pero Trump nos está diciendo que sí.

La masacre del 2019 de los latinxs en El Paso, Texas y las deportaciones en Mississippi no son más que la proliferación de la mentalidad del esclavo, y la narración de La Causa Perdida – América seria genial sin ustedes. Trump y sus seguidores necesitan el silencio, complicidad y apoyo de los cristianos para mantener este mensaje de temor. Las llamadas pidiendo paz, oración y reconciliación son tópicos que llaman nuestra atención, pero ignoran el propósito del racismo: el racismo quiere destruir y matar los latinxs y otras personas de color. Yo, también, quiero paz – paz que viene después de reconocer la violencia y los delitos en contra de los latinxs y personas de color. No podemos tener paz sin arrepentimiento colectivo por la violencia en contra de los inocentes, incluyendo el mío. Si hemos participado en bromas racistas, si hemos usado estereotipos para justificar nuestras acciones, o jalar el gatillo, hemos participado en una cultura que odia las diferencias.

Cuando gente me pregunta si amo mis enemigos, puedo decir que, “si.” Pero amar mis enemigos significa que apoyo la verdad con mi voz, no es sacrificar mi familia en un altar al dios de “la supremacía blanca.”

“Jesús tomo una postura en contra de lo normal de la sociedad y hablo la verdad a los poderosos. Y yo también escojo vivir una vida de valor, abogando por otras personas, también para mi familia, y yo mismo.”

La gente me pregunta, “estas enojada?” Mi respuesta, “si.” Estoy enojada porque he creído la narración típica de los Estados Unidos, escrito en libros que las personas del poder dicen que son la verdad. Pero, realmente sus libros cumplen la narración de los poderosos. Estoy enojada porque conozco el daño que ha hecho mi país, los Estados Unidos, y a veces estoy como congelada y no puedo hablar – no tengo voz. Y, estoy enojada porque hay una proliferación de rumores y Trump está trabajando para deshumanizar los latinxs y otras personas de color.

Necesitamos tener conversaciones con nuestros vecinos, los de nuestras iglesias, nuestras familias, nuestros compañeros del trabajo – los líderes de nuestros Iglesias, comunidades y organizaciones sobre las maneras pequeñas y grandes que hace daño la forma de pensar, “la supremacía blanca”. Escuche una viejita blanca que tiene más de 80 años, examinar sus estereotipos sobre personas de otras raíces. Ella estaba preguntando a si misma sobre donde aprendió a temer de los hombres de color y está trabajando en contraatacar eso pensamientos cuando se da cuenta. Esta manera de pensar es lo que todos nosotros necesitamos practicar.

Yo pertenezco a Jesús. Su vida de amor es un faro de esperanza. Su oferta de rendición incluye las personas blancas, negras, rojas, amarillas, cafés, y también personas de combinaciones de los colores – todos nosotros. Su mensaje de reconciliación es una llamada de honra. Espero que Jesús se encuentre en nuestras vidas como esperanza, rendición, reconciliación y honra mientras estamos peleando en contra de la historia, el presente, y el futuro del racismo.

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Precious in His Sight, Not Welcome in America

Danielle Castillejo — Fri, 23 Aug 2019 17:17:51 +0000

Often we hear calls for peace and reconciliation following an act of racism that overlook the fact that our culture is, in many ways, sinking back into one with a deep fear of the other. A culture that fears difference, that fuels white supremacy by staying silent while messages of oppression are spoken by those in power. Here, MA in Counseling Psychology student, Danielle Castillejo delivers a powerful call to speak truth to power and engage in open conversations about the ways white supremacy plays out in our culture. If you would like to read this post in Spanish, click here.

The children’s song says we are all precious in His sight, but apparently that is not true in America. The Lost Cause narrative (as explained by ) comes post-Civil War, when an economy formerly propped up by slave labor was grasping at ways to ensure its power over African Americans (now technically free). It idealizes the antebellum South as virtuous and heroic. Tisby states, “According to The Lost Cause narrative, the South wanted nothing more than to be left alone to preserve its idyllic civilization, but it was attacked by the aggressive, godless North, who swooped in to disrupt a stable society, calling for emancipation and inviting the intrusion of the federal government into small-town, rural life.” This narrative fueled white supremacy and organizations such as the Ku Klux Klan.

The Lost Cause narrative has been cleverly regurgitated as Trump’s “Make America Great Again” slogan. Using this story of an idealized time, our current President has played on the fears of many white Americans: an “invasion” of Latinxs will steal jobs, increase crime, and disrupt society. He’s re-introduced an old, evil message: America was greatest when it was oppressing, harkening back to the days of nearly complete economic, spiritual, and social power of whites over people of color. The old America murdered, raped, and dehumanized African Americans long before and after the Civil War ended. America does not hesitate to do the same to other people of color. It’s not that things have drastically shifted since then, but he’s telling us they have.

2019’s massacre of Latinxs in El Paso and the Mississippi deportations are nothing more than the proliferation of the slave-era mentality, and The Lost Cause narrative – America would be greater without you. Trump and his supporters bank on Christian silence and complicity to spread their message of fear. The calls for peace, prayers, and reconciliation are platitudes that call us to overlook racism’s death wish for Latinxs and other people of color. I, too, want peace – a peace that comes after violence and wrongdoing have been addressed. There can be no peace without collective repentance (including mine) for the murders of innocent men, women, and children. Whether we have laughed at racist jokes, used stereotypes to justify our actions, or actually pulled the trigger of a gun, we have participated in a culture that hates difference.

When I am asked if I love my enemies, I can confidently say, “yes.” But loving my enemies means telling the truth, not sacrificing my family on an altar to the god of white supremacy.

“Jesus stood against the status quo, speaking truth to power and I must choose to engage life with the courage to advocate for myself and others.”

Am I angry? “Yes.” I am angry at the ways I have relied on the typical American narrative from textbooks written by people with power. I am angry that having acknowledged the harm done by my country I’ve stood frozen and voiceless. And, I am angry at the proliferation of fear and dehumanization of Latinxs and other people of color.

We need to have conversations with our neighbors, family members, co-workers – the friend sitting next to us at church, and the leaders of those churches and organizations about the big and little ways white supremacy is still playing out today. I heard a white woman in her 80’s, examine the stereotypes she has about people of other races. She questioned where she had learned to be afraid of men of color and is countering those stereotypes when they pop up. This is the kind of thinking we all need to be engaged in.

I belong to Jesus. His life of love is a beacon of hope. His offer of redemption is inclusive to white, black, red, yellow, brown, and anything in-between people. His message of reconciliation is a call for honoring all people. May Jesus find his way into our lives as hope, redemption, reconciliation and honor as we face racism’s violent past, present and future.

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The Trash Run

Danielle Castillejo — Wed, 23 Jan 2019 14:00:16 +0000

The month of January has been designated Human Trafficking Awareness Month, culminating in National Freedom Day on February 1. Here, Danielle Castillejo, a second-year MA in Counseling Psychology student, writes about a recent shift working the “trash run” at a local shelter—and about the crisis of care that exists when complex trauma, mental illness, and sexual exploitation intersect. This post originally appeared on .

My surprised skin bumped into the chills of the new fall morning air. Inhaling deeply from its fresh coolness, I steadied my beating heart’s morning aches that were left over from last night’s racing internal discussion about a life and a death. A young 19-year-old woman hung suspended before my mind, with her long, coarse, strawberry blond hair pulled tightly into a knot behind her head. She’s an average height, not skin and bones, but there’s not much extra. Her eyes don’t mask the dark terror of the voices. This body holds at least 16 years of consuming trauma. Trauma has mapped itself well, topographically: old scars and new ones mark her dips in and out of reality. She paces nightly, in pj shorts and tank top, racing through her own internal dialogue with accusing voices, imprisoning her body in my plain sight.

The darkness of winter seems to have arrived too early. I am unprepared for its tepid response to my request for a bit more light. Average gray clouds hold in sadness, lust, anger, desire, joy, and anguish, engulfing Seattle in the inevitability of pending violence. It’s the edge of a knife. The sharp edge presses my skin to see if I am real. Wincing, I look at the complications of loving, caring, justice, and reality. Her body remains unmoved from my mind.

With limited shelters and limited resources available to commercially sexually exploited persons, the short list of helpful and innovative options grows shorter when mental illness haunts bodies infected by complex traumas. This young woman will make frequent visits to the hospital in hope for relief and, yet, return to her life with little protection from the realities of her invasive trauma. Mental health hospitals diagnose these persons with schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, dissociative identity disorder, major depressive disorder, suicidal ideation, and more. The self-harming behaviors of cutting and the dreams of suicide are identified and categorized, and the diagnosis procured.

“The short list of helpful and innovative options grows shorter when mental illness haunts bodies infected by complex traumas.”

Her shadow catches my eye. She walks down the street to wait for an Uber. The hospital door slams shut. She needs help and calls a friend.

The hospital releases her soul into a world of harsh expectations with little understanding of how in the hell she will come back from her severe mental illnesses.

I suppose, given the diagnosis, the hospital hopes that a plan of medication, therapy, and support will lead to healing. But without a buffer of time between the perpetual trauma and everyday life, hospitalizations, and a community that offers unconditional support, the commercially sexually exploited persons swim alone. They swim in dark, cold waters, gasping for air in systems unable to hold them compassionately.

Cutting edge therapeutic techniques are available to treat complex trauma; however, the skilled therapists are often financially bound to pay back student loans, bills, and to support a family. It’s difficult or nearly impossible to find social networks, churches, or systems that support the healing process of the lowest in society. And, most commercial sex workers are not white. They are Black, Asian, Pacific Islander, Latino/a, and bi-racial persons. When commercial sex workers walk into clinics, already stereotyped, reeking of addictions and death, only able to pay through state health insurance, there is not much hope to be held in those spaces.

These are the least of these. This is the trash run.

She sits, legs pulled to her chest, in the small shelter’s office, asking for grounding; she wants to get back to reality. Her phone buzzes just like mine, and her articulate analysis of her own internal reality questions my limited understanding. I mutter frustrations directed at a God who sees both of us. I resign to listen again to the accusing voices she narrates so clearly. We sit for less than 15 minutes because I am waiting on an Uber to take me home to a warm bed, husband, and four children. It is no consolation that I have spent precious hours away from my family to work here and get paid to chill with this woman and others. I don’t feel morally superior. I look at my watch one last time and excuse myself, telling her I am praying and hoping she stays safe. And with that, I remind myself that some would say I have completed my shift on “The Trash Run.”

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Weary and Thrilled: An Advent Proclamation

Danielle Castillejo — Wed, 12 Dec 2018 15:00:22 +0000

Advent is not simply a story we tell, not a one-and-done arrival of good news. It is a season of remembering that the good news is still emerging and evolving, that it needs to be proclaimed again and again as it seeps into both broad cultural dynamics and the small moments of our daily lives. Here, Danielle Castillejo, a second-year MA in Counseling Psychology student, writes about those everyday moments when conflict and stress loom close in the dark—and about the ongoing proclamation of Good News that still carries the light. This post originally appeared on .

The angels broke into the atmosphere, announcing good news that seemed too late. But, they broke in anyway:

Then his father, Zechariah, was filled with the Holy Spirit and gave this prophecy:
“Praise the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has visited and redeemed his people.
He has sent us a mighty Savior from the royal line of his servant David,
just as he promised through his holy prophets long ago.
Luke 1:67-70

I woke up again last night to his rough inhales—he struggled to catch his rhythm, and then exhaled more quickly. I found myself lying still, listening to his changing rhythms at 3:00am, pondering how to talk to the kids about my work schedule over Christmas. It isn’t my biggest worry, but I feel I can conquer it more adeptly than the other concerns that loom in the middle of the night.

Hope had stirred. Our finances have been good for more moments than bad this year, and yet, Christmas has arrived and we feel the voids of community and connection. It wears on our relationship, thinning the fabric stretched between our lives more than we want to admit. I look into the blackness, undaunted. I am here. He is here. Hope doesn’t abandon faithful and loved.

Now we will be saved from our enemies and from all who hate us.
He has been merciful to our ancestors by remembering his sacred covenant—
the covenant he swore with an oath to our ancestor Abraham.
We have been rescued from our enemies so we can serve God without fear,
in holiness and righteousness for as long as we live.
Luke 1:71-75

Hours earlier, we both woke to the droning television voices narrating news from the day. We had been arguing before bed again—kids, finances—until salted water finally leaked from both our eyes. Our argument had ended in zoning out in front of the TV; a truce of weariness, not of agreement. Both of us sat on different couches, stretched out, close to one another, but too far to touch. He didn’t know I needed his touch in the heat of the battle. I wanted to rest my hand on his chest, even as he poured frustrations into the space between us.

His eyebrows had squished toward each other. His mouth open, his voice moved slow and low. He was telling me we needed to keep our cool, our heads, our awareness. The problems at his work were different players, same situation. Honestly, I didn’t want to listen. I was tired. Tired of the same old story. It’s a story where he battles weariness in workspaces that tell him his accent trumps work ethic, efficiency, and integrity.

I used to strategize with him and thought better of the attempt. I saw the conflict. We weren’t really angry with one another. It’s the weariness of a daily grind that burns holes in our patience at home, and our ability to teach the kids grace. A faceless reality, shrouded in anger, hurt, and despair doesn’t offer either of us breathing room. Will we ever catch up on our bills? Will the kids feel loved with the Christmas gifts we can afford? Will our love survive the night? Our enemies are sitting right in front of us, but the enemy hasn’t won.

“Our enemies are sitting right in front of us, but the enemy hasn’t won.”

“And you, my little son, will be called the prophet of the Most High, because you will prepare the way for the Lord.
You will tell his people how to find salvation through forgiveness of their sins.
Because of God’s tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us…
Luke 1:76-78

My phone blinks, notifications flash: emails, texts, Facebook. I flip my phone face down. I don’t want to know what others want. The advertisements don’t tempt me. I’m tempted to skip the lights, tree, and stockings—but it’s not just about 40-year-old adult me. And I haven’t cashed in hope for barrenness. Not yet. I turn on my side, facing his back, certain I feel extravagance in the after-fight; a calm that he didn’t run—a peace that I didn’t leave.

We are a family and I want it that way. The beats inside quicken, I feel certain I will wake up, not less weary, but with the rush that comes from love. It is thrilling. Blackness still engulfs us, and his sporadic inhales and exhales are ordinary. This is the kind of ordinary that gives me hope, inspires me to work hard, an uncanny peace. God’s tender mercies.

After all, what gives light? It comes as we wait together in the darkness, inviting the light to fan the flame of hope in both of us.

So, I rejoice in the ordinary, and I join my husband in the hard, yet thrilling work of loving well. “It’s not too late,” I whisper to the angels. “Don’t ever stop announcing.”

…to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace.
Luke 1:79