Few biblical texts trouble modern readers more than those that describe the conquest of Canaan, especially in the context of post-Holocaust ethics, the global embrace of human rights, and increasing sensitivity to the language of ethnic violence and genocide.
By Dr. Tim Orr
Few biblical texts trouble modern readers more than those that describe the conquest of Canaan, especially in the context of post-Holocaust ethics, the global embrace of human rights, and increasing sensitivity to the language of ethnic violence and genocide. For many, the idea that God would command the destruction of entire populations—men, women, and children—is not just tricky; it is morally appalling. These passages seem to confirm the worst suspicions of Christianity’s critics: that the God of the Bible is violent, vindictive, and incompatible with the moral instincts of a just society. In an age that prizes human rights, condemns ethnic cleansing, and views religion with growing suspicion, the Canaanite conquest stands as one of the most formidable challenges to biblical faith.
To respond with integrity, Christians must do more than offer surface-level apologetics. This issue demands a careful theological, historical, and moral reckoning. We must enter the biblical world on its terms, ask hard questions without evasion, and allow the whole canon of Scripture to illuminate what is happening at Jericho. If we do, we will see that the conquest, while morally complex, is neither genocidal nor inconsistent with God's justice, patience, and mercy.
The story of Canaan’s judgment does not begin with Joshua’s sword—it starts with God’s long-suffering patience. In Genesis 15:16, God promises Abraham that his descendants will inherit the land, but not yet: “The sin of the Amorites has not yet reached its full measure.” This statement reveals a God who restrains judgment until it is morally unavoidable. The Canaanites were not innocent farmers surprised by divine violence. They were cultures marked by institutionalized evil, particularly child sacrifice, ritual sex acts, and the dehumanization of both women and children.
This was no passing vice. It was a deeply embedded religious practice. As Paul Copan and Matthew Flannagan explain, Canaanite worship centered on sacred prostitution and the burning of infants to Molech and Baal. These acts were not condemned within Canaan—they were celebrated, according to textual evidence found in Ugaritic inscriptions and corroborated by later Greco-Roman sources. However, archaeological and anthropological inference also supports some of these conclusions. (Copan & Flannagan, 2014, pp. 73–76). Moreover, ancient texts outside the Bible—such as Ugaritic documents and later Roman and Greek reports—confirm that child sacrifice was practiced in Canaan and persisted for centuries. God’s command to destroy these nations followed 400 years of patient forbearance and what can be understood as prophetic warning, whether directly referenced in texts like Genesis 15:16 or inferred from God's broader patterns of moral communication and judgment throughout Scripture.
This extended delay is not an incidental detail; it is theologically critical. God’s judgment is not impulsive. It is morally reactive, proportionate, and preceded by calls to repentance. The delay itself reflects God’s reluctance to judge. The conquest only proceeds when Canaanite depravity becomes a direct threat to Israel’s ability to remain faithful and to serve as a light to the nations.
One of the most essential correctives to modern misreadings is recognizing who Israel was and what the conquest was not. Israel was not an ancient superpower. They were not Rome, Egypt, or Assyria. They had no king, empire, or standing army until much later. They were an ex-slave people living under a theocracy, bound by divine covenant and guided by prophetic law—a sharp contrast to modern nation-states governed by centralized political authority, national self-interest, and secular legal systems. Israel’s existence was not predicated on territorial expansion or political dominance, but on spiritual vocation and covenantal faithfulness. The conquest of Canaan was not about expanding political territory but about purging religious corruption and establishing holy space for God’s dwelling.
This becomes even clearer when we realize that God forbade Israel from expanding its land holdings beyond what He allotted (Deut. 2:4–9; 7:1–6). They were not to conquer Moab, Edom, or Ammon. Furthermore, Israel was not allowed to accumulate personal wealth or enslave conquered peoples during the conquest (Josh. 6:17–19). This was not opportunistic violence—it was sacred judgment with clear moral and geographic limits.
Old Testament scholar Peter C. Craigie puts it well: “The wars of conquest were not imperial campaigns. They were acts of divine justice executed under strict command and subject to higher moral accountability” (Craigie, 1976, p. 91). This means that we cannot draw a straight line from Joshua to later religious violence or Christian colonialism. The conquest was unique, unrepeatable, and tethered to a specific redemptive-historical context.
Another major stumbling block is the language used in these texts—phrases like “leave alive nothing that breathes” or “destroy them.” To modern ears, this sounds like absolute annihilation. However, as scholars of the ancient Near East have shown, such language was standard hyperbolic rhetoric in military literature. Egyptian, Assyrian, and Moabite kings routinely claimed to have “wiped out” entire cities or nations, only for later records to show that those nations still existed.
The same is true in Scripture. In Joshua 10:20, we read that Israel “struck them down until they had left none remaining.” But the next verse says, “the remnant that remained fled into fortified cities.” Judges 1 shows that many Canaanite populations remained in the land after the supposed “total destruction.” This suggests that biblical language about “destroying all” functioned rhetorically to describe decisive military victory, not literal extermination.
K. Lawson Younger Jr. has done extensive comparative work in this area. His conclusion is clear: “The biblical conquest accounts are consistent with ancient conventions of rhetorical overstatement. They emphasize the completeness of God’s victory, not the obliteration of every man, woman, and child” (Younger, 1990, pp. 241–246). This genre-awareness helps us read Joshua more faithfully, not as modern historians or moralists, but as students of ancient theological narrative. Practically, we must avoid imposing contemporary categories of warfare or ethics onto the text and instead teach these passages within their literary, historical, and theological contexts. It encourages Bible readers to approach such texts with humility, recognizing both the distance between ancient and modern worldviews and the overarching redemptive storyline in which these events are situated.
Despite all this, the moral weight of these texts often returns to one central question: What about the children? Even if these narratives are hyperbolic, what if some children did die? This question strikes at the heart of our emotional and moral intuitions, especially in a world deeply attuned to the suffering of the innocent. It is not just a theoretical dilemma but a profoundly human one, and it must be approached with humility and sorrow, even as we seek philosophical and theological clarity. Can that ever be morally justified?
This is where the question becomes existential. The Bible offers no glib answer. But it does offer a framework in which such judgment, while deeply sobering, can be understood. William Lane Craig argues from a classical theistic perspective that God, as the author of life, has the right to take life as He deems. Furthermore, if God receives the souls of children who die, then the moral calculus must account for eternal destiny, not merely temporal suffering (Craig, 2007, pp. 183–186).
Others invoke the doctrine of double effect, a principle developed by Thomas Aquinas, which allows an action with both a good and an unintended harmful consequence to be morally justifiable if the harm is not the direct object of the will. In this view, the goal of the conquest was the elimination of religious corruption, not the targeting of children. Any deaths were tragic, but not unjust in the ultimate sense (Copan & Flannagan, 2014, pp. 112–116).
While these arguments may not erase the emotional sting, they show that the problem is not ignored. Christian ethics takes seriously the tragic cost of judgment, God's holiness, the seriousness of sin, and the reality of eternity. In the Christian worldview, God is not capricious. He is patient and measured, even when His ways are beyond our comprehension.
Perhaps the most underappreciated theme in the conquest narratives is mercy. The stories of Rahab and the Gibeonites demonstrate that repentance was possible. Rahab, a Canaanite prostitute, becomes a model of faith and enters the lineage of Christ (Matt. 1:5). The Gibeonites, though deceptive in their approach, are spared and integrated into Israel (Josh. 9). These accounts reveal that God’s aim was not racial destruction but moral and spiritual allegiance.
This reflects a consistent biblical pattern. In addition to Nineveh, we see this in God’s willingness to spare Sodom had even ten righteous people been found (Gen. 18:32), and in His mercy toward Ahab after a moment of genuine humility (1 Kings 21:27–29). Judgment is always preceded by invitation. God takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked (Ezek. 18:23), and He often relents when people repent—even wicked nations like Nineveh (Jonah 3). The conquest must be read as an exceptional act of judgment, not the pattern of God’s everyday dealings with the world.
Finally, the conquest must be within the larger arc of redemptive history. Israel’s role as God’s agent of judgment in Canaan is not the story's climax. The climax is Christ crucified, where God no longer pours out wrath on His enemies but absorbs it into Himself. The sword once wielded in Joshua now pierces the side of the Savior—a profound image that illustrates substitutionary atonement. Rather than directing divine justice outward, God takes it upon Himself in the person of Christ, offering mercy through judgment and redemption through self-giving love. At Golgotha, divine justice and divine mercy converge.
As N. T. Wright notes, “The cross is not the suspension of justice, but the fulfillment of it—not through vengeance, but through substitution” (Wright, 2006, p. 99). In light of the gospel, we can affirm that God’s justice in Canaan was real, but so was His longing for reconciliation. And the God who judged Canaan is the same God who invites all nations, even former enemies, to be reconciled through Christ.
The conquest of Canaan remains one of the most sobering sections of Scripture. It should make us tremble, not just because of what it reveals about judgment, but also about sin—its corrupting power, its deadly effects, and its capacity to invite divine wrath. But it should also drive us toward awe. For the same God who judged sin with fire also judged it with nails. The one who decreed the fall of Jericho also wept over Jerusalem.
This is not a God we can tame. But He is a God we can trust.
Copan, P., & Flannagan, M. (2014). Did God Really Command Genocide? Coming to Terms with the Justice of God. Baker Books. Craig, W. L. (2007). Reasonable Faith: Christian Truth and Apologetics (3rd ed.). Crossway. Craigie, P. C. (1976). The Problem of War in the Old Testament. Eerdmans. Hess, R. S. (1996). Joshua: An Introduction and Commentary. IVP Academic. Wright, N. T. (2006). Evil and the Justice of God. IVP Academic. Younger, K. L., Jr. (1990). Ancient Conquest Accounts: A Study in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical History Writing. Sheffield Academic Press.