In Deuteronomy 20:16-17, as Israel stands on the threshold of the promised land, the command is unequivocal: when you enter the land, you must destroy every living thing. Make no covenant. Show no mercy. The language of genocide is absolute. The land is to be cleared of those living in it and of their religious practices. Nothing is to remain that might compromise Israel’s covenant identity.

For many, this text causes profound difficulty. How do we reconcile the claim that God is unconditionally loving with a passage that appears to command total obliteration? How do we hold both as revealing God to us?

Recently, a friend reminded me that I once committed a form of genocide in my own life. When a significant relationship ended, and there was no possibility of resolution, I devoted myself to completely ridding my life of its visible traces: Journals, letters, cards, and gifts were all destroyed because they reminded me of the one I loved. I even bought a new car. 

None of this was done out of hatred. Far from it. I still hold deep affection for them, more than they may ever know. Instead, the clearing was an act of grief and a necessary part of my healing. It was not violence against a person, but separation from what could no longer hold my future. Removing the past created space for mourning, breath, and eventually something new. 

What emerged was not another romantic relationship, but a call - Divine Infinity. I came to see that my devotion to that relationship was occupying time and attention that belonged to something God was asking of me. My energy was being directed to sustaining the relationship, and in the process, I was overlooking what my life was being called to become. In the end, that sense of call became too great for me to ignore. 

You might say this reflects an absolutism learned in my fundamentalist days - an either-or mindset - and perhaps there is some truth in that. Yet what I have also discovered is that this act of decisive clearing was a gift. Creating space opened my life not only to new work but to deeper friendships. My life is richer and more connected now, especially to my family, in ways I could never have imagined. That depth was not possible while I remained emotionally bound to what had now ended. That same freedom applies to my ex. 

With this, we return to Deuteronomy 7: what if the command was never meant to act as a template for violence, but as a metaphor for clarity? What if “devoting to destruction” is about refusing to make a covenant with whatever threatens the integrity of who we are? Elsewhere, Scripture calls this repentance, a turning away from old patterns and a walking toward something new. 

The psalmist speaks of a lamp that guides the walker step by step. Not floodlights. Not certainty. Just enough light for the next faithful movement. You cannot walk forward with confidence in the dark while continually looking behind. It is why Jesus says that no one who puts their hand to the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom. Not because memory is immoral, but because divided attention distracts. 

We cannot welcome the new while holding onto the old ways. Nothing here disparages those who have been precious to us. I wish no harm toward anyone who has walked with me intimately and tenderly, and I regularly give thanks to God for each of them. Yet sometimes the most loving act we can do is to let someone go, and that requires our full commitment, strength, courage, and trust. In doing so, we may be freeing not only our own future, but theirs as well; opening both lives to whatever God is calling forth next. 

If you are looking for a more compassionate reading of the Bible, our Liberated Life Commentaries were written to help.