Rethinking Charity: Are We Doing It All Wrong?
In the spring of 2023, my local refugee resettlement agency asked me to house a young woman originally from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Shortly after, Margo joined me, and we began creating a life together. Initially, I imagined us bonding over shared activities like gardening, only to quickly discover she has an absolute aversion to bugs.
As I tried to get to know Margo on her own terms, I soon learned that she is an exceptionally grateful person. She thanked me profusely for everything—rides to job interviews, introductions to neighbors—small gestures that, to me, were simply part of sharing a home. At first, I accepted her gratitude as part of her adjustment to a new country, but soon it became uncomfortable. Her constant references to me as an angel made me want to surreptitiously check my backside to see if I had sprouted a pair of wings. More seriously, I feared she was placing me on a pedestal, inadvertently pigeonholing herself as a beneficiary without her own agency.
As I wrestled with how to respond, I recalled a powerful moment from the life of Frederick Douglass, the famed abolitionist and formerly enslaved writer. Years after Douglass gained freedom, his former master, burdened by guilt, summoned him to his deathbed, presumably seeking forgiveness. Reflecting on this moment later, Douglass wrote:
Our courses had been determined for us, not by us. We had both been flung, by powers that did not ask our consent, upon a mighty current of life, which we could neither resist nor control.
Margo and I have distinctly different histories—hers shaped by war and displacement, mine by the privilege of stability. Yet, like Douglass and his former master, we had been flung together by forces neither of us chose. At that moment when we were standing in our kitchen doing the dishes together, we weren’t giver and receiver, benefactor and beneficiary; we were simply two human beings trying to find a rhythm of life together.
When I explained this to Margo, she immediately understood. In fact, soon after, she called me back to our shared dignity by questioning my constant thanks for her emptying the dishwasher. “That’s just what people do when we live together,” she said.
Margo and I certainly value expressing gratitude. It surely is the most appropriate response when life gifts us unexpected blessings. Yet the realization that neither of us needed wings—or perhaps we both had them already—set us on a path of friendship rooted not in our limited individual histories but in our common humanity. This insight became foundational as Margo helped me shape Project Dignity, a nonprofit dedicated to empowering refugees to build independent, flourishing lives.
Since launching Project Dignity, I've sought reading material to deepen my understanding of poverty, migration, and human dignity. Books such as Daniel G. Groody’s A Theology of Migration: The Bodies of Refugees and the Body of Christ illuminate the scriptural and theological dimensions of displacement, while narratives like Daniel Nayeri’s Everything Sad Is Untrue reveals a profoundly personal refugee story. Yet Ismael Hernandez’s Rethinking Charity: Restoring Dignity to Poverty Relief poses perhaps the hardest question: What if our charity does more harm than good?
One of the pleasures—and discomforts—of reading Hernandez is encountering his crystal-clear, vacuum-packed logic. I would hate to meet him in a dark alley and have to argue my way out. His arguments are not just compelling; they’re unavoidable. As I read, I often scribbled in the margins, reactions like "Oh my," and "Yikes." Lines such as, "What could be the substance of private charity if welfare is an inviolable natural and political right? Is it that Christians smile more widely while giving stuff away?" made me blush with shame. Hernandez doesn't merely suggest; he confronts, leaving readers honestly wrestling with uncomfortable truths about their charitable intentions.
Part of what makes Hernandez’s arguments so powerful is his own story. He’s a former Marxist turned advocate for empowerment. He challenges conventional charity by dissecting dynamics that often render aid ineffective or even harmful. He argues that poverty encompasses more than material lack—it is fundamentally about powerlessness. Charity, then, must move beyond alleviating physical needs toward actively restoring agency and autonomy. Hernandez provocatively asserts, “People are not problems to be solved but potential to be unleashed,” demanding we view those in need as individuals capable of self-determination.
He warns against the "pathology of good intentions," cautioning that compassionate feelings alone do not guarantee beneficial outcomes. Misguided charity inadvertently creates dependency, stripping individuals of responsibility and initiative. Hernandez critiques bureaucratic approaches to poverty alleviation, noting they address immediate physical needs but rarely deeper cultural and spiritual elements necessary for genuine flourishing. “Government assistance may sustain a body, but it cannot nourish a soul,” he writes, emphasizing true transformation occurs through relationships, not programs.
To counteract these pitfalls, Hernandez champions subsidiarity—the principle that social issues should first be addressed at the immediate local level before broader institutional intervention occurs. “The state should protect the common good, not replace it,” he argues, asserting that vibrant local communities and interpersonal relationships nurture dignity, resilience, and lasting change.
Hernandez’s advocacy for subsidiarity aligns with his broader call to reimagine charity as relational rather than transactional. The goal should never simply be alleviating discomfort but restoring a person’s ability to pursue their own goals and dreams. Genuine relationships involve discomfort and tension; if charity consistently feels comfortable, Hernandez warns, we might not truly be helping.
Yet transactional charity is not inherently flawed. Friends of mine, for example, deliver food to the homebound, carefully discerning whether recipients desire conversation, prayer, or simply food quietly placed at the door. There’s no universally correct approach—only thoughtful attention to each individual's dignity. My experience with Margo taught me precisely this: charity is most authentic when we recognize and honor the dignity inherent in each particular relationship, regardless of its form.
Rethinking Charity is ultimately a profound philosophical and practical challenge. It compels readers to reflect deeply on whether their efforts genuinely empower others or merely satisfy their own generosity. Hernandez’s framework demands humility, relational depth, and a profound commitment to fostering dignity and autonomy in those we help.
Hernandez’s thinking has challenged me significantly as I shape Project Dignity. Should we simply help refugees find jobs, or invest in helping them build meaningful careers? Should we donate cars outright, or facilitate opportunities for refugees to purchase them independently? Transactional aid often feels simpler—and sometimes immediate relief is necessary. Yet my mission—to preserve refugees’ dignity—requires that empowerment remain foundational. Maintaining this vision demands ongoing vigilance, lest Project Dignity drift into becoming a bureaucratic vending machine dispensing temporary comforts rather than lasting independence.
For anyone committed to meaningful charity and authentic human relationships, Hernandez’s book is essential. It pushes beyond comfortable assumptions, compelling critical assessment of our good intentions, and equipping us to build empowering relationships rooted deeply in mutual dignity and our shared humanity.