If you missed it, check out the introduction to this series here.
Most of us can probably quote the moral that concludes the famous story of the tortoise and the hare: “slow and steady wins the race.” But I’m not sure that we actually believe it.
I imagine that I am the hare. I’ve just humiliated myself by losing a race against a tortoise. I can see clearly where I went wrong. I shouldn’t have taken a nap in the middle of the race. I underestimated how far ahead I was and how much ground the tortoise could gain while I was sleeping. When my father gently tells me, “Slow and steady wins the race, my dear,” I’m not listening. I’m mentally repeating a different lesson: “Don’t stop running. No matter what.”
And so, older and wiser, I enter another race, this time against a badger. I figure that the better my competition, the more motivated I’ll be to run my hardest. The morning of the race finds me stretching and guzzling an energy drink (not that I’ll be tempted to take a nap—I know better now).
As I approach the starting line, my father calls out, “Remember! Slow and steady wins the race!” This time I hear him, but the advice makes no sense. Slow? What is he even talking about?
At the gunshot, I spring forward and run. I’m a hare. Running is what I know how to do.
Just like the hare, slow and steady isn’t a pace that comes naturally to me. But more than that, slow and steady just doesn’t make sense. Why walk when you can run? Or, as a first-year teacher—why improve upon the writing assignments left by the previous teacher in one class when I could improve them in all three? Or, as a writer—why be content with writing one new essay this week when I could write two?
Like the hare, I don’t even consider that there might be another way. Like the hare, I can point to ways that getting more done in less time has allowed me to achieve things that I might never have done otherwise. I prefer not to think about the times that it has left me snoozing in the bushes by the side of the road, getting beaten by tortoises.
But there’s one key difference between the hare and me. I’m not actually in a race. And yet I act as if I am, as if speed is a reliable indicator of how successful I am. I suppose this isn’t surprising, considering that I live in a culture where we idolize people who achieve success at an especially young age, where the new American dream seems to be the prospect of going viral and achieving fame overnight, and where “you snooze you lose” has become something of a national motto.
We’ve come to believe that productivity means doing as much as possible as quickly as possible. If you’re anything like me, you have a hard time imagining any other way of looking at it.
But trees seem to look at things very differently indeed.
Here’s a fact that most of us probably know: trees don’t produce fruit until they are mature.
Here’s what I didn’t know: it can take a long time for trees to mature.
In fact, the longer it takes, the better. According to Peter Wohlleben in The Hidden Life of Trees, “Scientists have determined that slow growth when the tree is young is a prerequisite if a tree is to live to a ripe old age” (33). And by slow, he means SLOW. He describes a “young” beech tree with a trunk no more than a third of an inch in diameter that he estimated to be at least 80 years old.
Was this tree a weakling? No. Quite the opposite, in fact. Other trees that had tried to maximize their growth in their early years had burned out and died, but this tree was alive and strong. More than that, it was well-prepared to continue to be strong as it grew. Wohlleben explains that trees that grow slowly have denser wood which is less vulnerable to cracks and to fungi.
What all of this tells us is that the more slowly trees grow, the more likely they are to be fruitful in the long term.
This is as counterintuitive as telling a hare to slow down, and it’s as counterintuitive inside the church as out of it. Paul’s charge to Timothy to not let anyone look down on him because he was young but to set an example for the rest of the believers (1 Timothy 4:12) has been used by a lot of well-meaning Christian teachers to make teenagers feel that they must change the world before they graduate from high school. Of course, it’s absolutely true that teenagers don’t have to—and shouldn’t—wait until they are adults to pursue a relationship with God, develop skills, and serve their families, churches, and communities. I’m deeply grateful for the teachers and books that encouraged me to live seriously and intentionally during those years. But I do wish I had heard more of the other side of the story.
For there are many places where the story of Scripture ought to prepare us to recognize the value of slowness. After all, we have a Father whose patience is often mistaken for slowness (2 Peter 3:9) or forgetfulness (Isaiah 49:14), a Savior who came to earth as a human being and didn’t begin his ministry until he was 30 years old, and a Spirit whose work in our hearts is compared to a tree bearing fruit (Galatians 5).
When God made humans to be fruitful as trees are fruitful, I suspect the slow process of growing in maturity was part of his good design.
So what would it look like to adopt a different timeline for ourselves? What would it look like to pursue fruitfulness with the understanding that time is a friend rather than an enemy—one of the necessary ingredients for productivity rather than a sign of failure?
What would it look like to value patience, slow progress, and high quality work without falling into timidity or procrastination or perfectionism?
What would it look like to honor the way God created us to grow slowly without neglecting his command to do good work in the world?
It might feel like silliness, foolishness, and weakness. Like an 80-year-old beech tree as thin as a pencil. Or a hare beginning a race not at a run but at a walk.
But in the end, it might look like longevity, wisdom, and strength.
I’m just beginning to learn about these things, so I’d love to hear from you. Why is slow & steady so difficult for us? What practices help you cultivate an appreciation for slowness? Where have you seen the benefits of taking your time?
One good question that has come up as I’ve discussed this idea with others is this: How does Paul’s exhortation to make the most of the time (see Ephesians 5:15–17) fit with the idea that slow progress is beneficial? There’s certainly a tension here, as I tried to acknowledge at the end of the essay. I’d love to hear some different perspectives on how to navigate that tension well.
Thanks for reading and pondering along with me!