“Feed Two Birds with One Scone”: Rethinking the Language We Teach and Live By

Written By Jessi Watson

10.14.2025 | Written by Jessi Watson

By Jessi Watson

In my classroom, words matter. They shape how students think, how they relate to one another, and how they see themselves in the world. So when I catch myself saying something like “Let’s kill two birds with one stone,” I pause. Because why are we killing birds in the middle of a lesson about collaboration and care?

For years, that phrase rolled off my tongue without a second thought. Like many idioms, it was just a shorthand for efficiency — doing more with less. But when you really sit with it, the image is unsettling. Violence has quietly seeped into the very language we use to describe productivity, progress, and even success.

Micah, a writer for the Global Wholeness Initiative, calls this out directly in Feed Two Birds with One Scone, where they invite readers to examine the “everyday violence” of our words. From “shooting fish in a barrel” to “biting the bullet” to “taking a stab at it,” English is littered with metaphors of aggression and domination. We barely notice them — yet they influence how we conceptualize goals, challenges, and one another. Micah’s gentle alternative — feed two birds with one scone — doesn’t just swap words; it shifts intention. It replaces harm with nourishment.

This isn’t about political correctness. It’s about awareness. As educators, we are stewards of language. The words we use in classrooms help students learn how to communicate, yes — but also how to be in the world. If our metaphors constantly echo conquest, survival, and competition, we shouldn’t be surprised when those become the frameworks through which students interpret their own success.

The phrase’s origins, in fact, reveal something about how our values have evolved — or perhaps devolved. Thomas Hobbes used “kill two birds with one stone” in 1656 not to praise efficiency, but to warn against overreach. In his view, trying to do too much at once would likely lead to failure. Centuries later, the phrase has morphed into a modern badge of honor. To “kill two birds” is to multitask, to optimize, to hustle — to achieve more in less time.

But as Brent Beshore argues in his essay How “Killing Two Birds with One Stone” Kills Us and Our Work, this obsession with efficiency has become toxic. We “kill more birds” by checking emails during dinner, juggling multiple projects at once, and packing every moment of our day with productivity. Efficiency, once a means to an end, has become an end in itself. The result is a culture of burnout — one that prizes busyness over depth and speed over substance.

As a teacher, I see this mentality take root early. Students often conflate speed with intelligence, thinking the goal is to get through material rather than absorb it. They juggle assignments, jobs, and family obligations, and when they stumble, they blame themselves rather than the system that glorifies overextension. When we use phrases like “kill two birds with one stone,” we reinforce the idea that the best learners — and workers, and people — are those who can do it all, at once, and without rest.

Yet the earliest written appearance of the phrase — surprisingly — occurs in the Bible. In Romans 14:18, the apostle Paul urges readers to “single-mindedly serve Christ,” promising that doing so will “kill two birds with one stone: pleasing the God above you and proving your worth to the people around you.” Here, the phrase takes on an entirely different meaning — not about multitasking, but about alignment. One intention, one act, serving multiple purposes. The focus is on coherence, not efficiency. Paul continues, reminding readers to “use all our energy in getting along with each other” and to speak words that encourage rather than tear down.

In that light, feed two birds with one scone feels closer to the spiritual point — a call to nourish connection, not conquer objectives.

Language, after all, does more than describe reality; it creates it. When we speak mindlessly, we replicate systems we might otherwise want to change. Micah writes, “The language of a culture is revealing. What it chooses to give a word to, or not, says something about what that culture values and recognizes.” If we want to raise a generation that values empathy, sustainability, and community, we can start by modeling that mindfulness in the words we choose.

So what does that look like in practice? For me, it means slowing down — in speech, in teaching, and in life. It means catching myself before I default to idioms that casually invoke harm, and asking instead, What am I really trying to say? Maybe I’m trying to say, “Let’s solve two problems with one solution.” Or better yet, “Let’s nurture two ideas with one conversation.”

It also means resisting the cultural compulsion to multitask my way through the day — to “kill more birds.” Instead, I remind myself of Beshore’s hard-earned lessons: attention is finite, self-reflection is critical, and doing less often produces better results. As he writes, “This isn’t the dress rehearsal.” We only get one chance to show up fully, to teach with care, to model what thoughtful communication looks like.

So?

Perhaps that’s the real lesson for the classroom — and beyond. We don’t have to abandon every idiom or sanitize our speech. But we can choose to speak — and live — more intentionally. We can choose to feed, not kill. To connect, not conquer. To speak words that make room for gentleness in a world that already has enough stones to throw.


Jessi Watson
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