David Platt Emotionally Manipulates Christians to Ignore Border Laws and Welcome Illegal Aliens

Men like David Platt—who spend the majority of their time in ivory towers barking commands at the rest of the Church to “stop being racist” while urging them to give up their own “positions of power” to people of color—have a really hard time wrapping their heads around why the common person is fed up with the woke movement and want nothing to do with it.

Platt, who is known for his “Secret Church” events and his book Radical, is still neck-deep in his woke theatrics and his May 13, 2025, Relevant magazine piece, “We’re Called to Serve Immigrants,” unfurls a melodrama so thick it could clog a river.

In his article at the leftist religious rag, he strides forth, armed with “Sam and Lucas”—two illegal aliens huddled in a rattling SUV, sweating in a diner’s shadows, numbing pain with liquor and vice—and peddles a narrative dripping with calculated tears. But despite his claim, this has nothing to do with the gospel, it’s a subversive pitch for open borders and amnesty, a high-stakes con cloaked in Bible verses.

Buckle up—this is a ride through hypocrisy and deceit, and we’re tearing the veil to unmask it.

Let’s start with the bait. Platt parades Sam and Lucas like props in a tragic play, huddled under a blanket in a rickety SUV, shuttled to a greasy spoon where a shady owner tosses them cash and a crust of bread.

Platt writes:

They live in Mexico in the midst of desperate poverty, unable to provide for their wives and children. One day, a friend tells them he knows a way for them to get jobs in the United States. There, they could earn enough to support their families from afar. With no other options, they say goodbye to their loved ones and leave.

Weeks later, they’re lying in the back of an old SUV, hidden under a blanket as the truck bumps down a rural road. Eventually, they arrive at the rear entrance of a popular restaurant, where the owner steps outside. After a brief conversation with the driver, the owner hands him some cash, then opens the back door of the SUV. He uncovers the men and tells them to get out quickly.

Inside the restaurant, the owner gives them a quick meal and introduces their new reality: busing tables and washing dishes. After they eat, he drives them to a run-down house they’ll share with a group of other workers. “I’ll pick you up at 10 a.m.,” he says, and drives off.

Sam and Lucas now have a new life. Every day, they’re shuttled between the house and the restaurant. It’s a well-known place, filled with glowing reviews and all kinds of customers—people like you and me. But amid the bustle, no one notices them. No one knows their names. They are invisible. They send home as much money as they can, numbing their isolation through alcohol and prostitution.

A sob story, for sure. Their plight is real, no doubt—exploitation stinks like an open New York City sewer in summer. But why the theatrics? Why drape their story in such melodramatic hues that readers practically hear violins wailing? Because it’s emotional manipulation, a calculated tug at the emotions, and a cheap trick to guilt-trip Christians into swallowing an open borders fantasy.