A few years ago in Juarez, I visited churches that had become lifelines for asylum seekers just across the Southern border. These weren't fancy aid operations—just ordinary congregations opening their doors, serving meals from folding tables, letting families sleep in their pews.
While I was there, one of the missionaries told me about Jose.
Jose showed up for free lunch every day like hundreds of others. But unlike everyone else who would eat and move on, Jose always stayed. He'd find a broom and sweep the filthy sidewalk outside.
The whole street was hopeless—dust and trash that would return within hours. The missionaries had given up on it long ago. They told Jose repeatedly: "Your lunch is free. You don't need to work for it. This is a gift."
But Jose kept sweeping. "I am earning my lunch," he'd say.
At first, the missionaries thought Jose didn't understand grace. They meant well—they wanted him to receive without guilt or obligation.
But Jose understood something they'd missed entirely.
After months of living on the charity of others he was forgetting who he was. He wasn't just someone in need. He was a worker, a maker, someone with something to offer. The broom wasn't about payment—it was about identity.
"I am more than my circumstances," every sweep declared. "I am more than my need."
What We Get Wrong About Helping
Here's what haunts me: In our eagerness to serve without expectation, have we accidentally begun to strip away what makes people human?
When we insist people just receive our help without contributing anything back (in those cases where they can) are we creating dependency? Or worse, are we slowly/subtly convincing them they have nothing valuable to offer. Day after day, month after month, is our message eroding something essential? —their sense of being creators, not just consumers?
Jose's broom was his rebellion against that lie.
The Deeper Truth
Genesis tells us humans are made "in God's image" and immediately follows with: "Fill the earth and subdue it." We're designed to create, to transform chaos into order, to make something from nothing—just like our Creator.
Work isn't just about money or meeting material needs. It's about reflecting who we are.
When we create value that others need, we're not just working—we're serving our neighbors. Jose knew this. Even if all he could offer was a cleaner street for an hour, he had something to give.
A Different Way Forward
What if every food pantry, every church outreach, every volunteer program asked not just "How can we meet this need?" but "How can we create relationships of opportunity while also meeting our neighbor’s most pressing needs?”
Maybe it's letting people help prepare and serve the meals they'll later eat. Maybe it's shelter residents helping with building maintenance. Maybe it's teaching skills while providing groceries. Maybe it's just letting someone sweep a street that will be dirty again tomorrow.
The method matters less than the principle: every opportunity to contribute affirms that this person has something valuable to offer.
This thought changed how I saw business/the marketplace. If work is tied to human identity, then shouldn’t creating good well paying jobs becomes one of the most profound forms of service available? Entrepreneurs have the chance to build more than companies—they can creating opportunities for people to live out their fundamental purpose, reflecting their God given creative nature.
The Sound of Dignity
To outsiders, Jose's daily sweeping looked futile—cleaning a street that would be dirty by morning. But the missionaries who told me this story understood what was really happening: the sound of dignity refusing to be silenced.
We don't win when everyone's needs are met by others. We win when everyone has the ability to meet their own needs and serve others in return.
Jose taught those missionaries that charity without participation doesn't always uplift—it can erode. That true generosity doesn't just stop at filling stomachs—it affirms worth and identity. That sometimes the most sacred work is just sweeping a street that will be dirty again tomorrow, because in that simple act, our divine image stays intact.