There is a refrain often spoken in quiet rooms and loud debates alike: “If we didn’t have illegal immigrants doing this work, grocery prices would skyrocket—because Americans won’t do these jobs under those conditions.” On the surface, it sounds practical. But underneath, it reveals something deeply troubling: a willingness to accept exploitation, so long as the benefits keep flowing.
To say that prices would rise if we paid workers fairly and treated them with dignity is not a defense of good sense. It is an admission of guilt. It means we know the jobs are unjust. It means we know the conditions are unacceptable. And it means we are willing to keep those conditions in place—so long as someone else suffers under them.
This is not merely economic. It is moral. We are speaking, in effect, of a caste of workers hidden in the shadows, kept there by fear and silence, because bringing them into the light would cost us more at the checkout line. But what kind of society weighs human dignity against dollars and decides the former is too expensive?
The argument assumes two things: first, that the conditions these workers endure are beneath what any citizen should tolerate; and second, that someone must endure them, just not us. It suggests that as long as the suffering stays out of sight—beneath the surface of our supply chains—it can be ignored or even justified. But Scripture is clear: “Woe to those who build their houses by unrighteousness, and their upper rooms by injustice; who make their neighbors serve them for nothing and do not give them their wages” (Jer. 22:13). If the foundation of our abundance is injustice, then no matter how clean our stores or fresh our produce, it is cursed.
What does it say about us if we maintain an entire class of laborers who do the work we refuse to do, under conditions we would never accept, for pay we would never tolerate—simply to avoid paying more for grapes or meat or milk? We are not preserving the economy. We are preserving our comfort by tethering others to hardship.
And what of the conscience of a nation that refuses to lift burdens it knowingly places on others? Can a people truly be free if their ease is built upon another’s fear?
This logic—“We need them to work in the shadows, or prices will go up”—is no better than the old systems that justified oppression by economic necessity. It is the same lie repackaged: that some people were born to serve cheaply so others might live well. But no one was born to be used. No one was created to be hidden and controlled for another’s benefit.
If the cost of doing what is right is higher prices, then let them rise. If the work is difficult and conditions unpleasant, then let us improve the work, not hide the workers. Let us ask: what if it were our sons in those fields, our daughters in those kitchens, working long hours with no voice and no safety? Would we call that economic necessity—or would we call it injustice?
No amount of savings is worth the price of our integrity. A people who honor God cannot live off the backs of those they refuse to see. If we know the jobs are beneath our standards, then we should raise the standards, not lower the worker. If we know the pay is unjust, then we should increase the pay, not look the other way.
There will always be a cost to doing what is right. But the cost of doing wrong—year after year, generation after generation—is far greater. A nation that sacrifices righteousness for cheap fruit will one day reap what it has sown.