Around the corner from where we live, an enterprising soul has set up a quixotic scene. Using an old trailer once adapted to host performances, two life-size figures of snowmen jauntily wave to passersby. Yet, a closer look shows the scene to be … a bit odd. For in between the snowmen is a blazing fire. And so, what at first appears to be a simple seasonal decoration becomes an invitation to look again and behold a more complex message.
Of course, the unsigned installation is the work of an artist who has their own ideas of what it might mean — as my meditation is based solely on my experience. In my mind, I’ve named the piece “Perilous Comforts.”
Snowmen aren’t to be blamed for seeking a bit of relief from the unrelenting cold of this winter. Haven’t we all been holed up more than usual with the snow deep and the ice treacherous, and hasn’t it felt oh so good to come in from the cold? That’s more than comfort — it’s a necessity for our very survival. Yet the snowmen smiling, waving, still unaware of the effect the fire will have on them in due time — this scene seems to me to ask a less physical, more metaphysical question: at what cost comes comfort? As for the snowmen, the cost is their very existence (that is, if they weren’t wooden cutouts!) But what is it for us humans?
As I meditated on this question, the first Perilous Comfort I came to was the rapid dissemination and adoption of artificial intelligence (AI). I recently had a conversation with a teacher friend, maddened by the prevalence of AI-generated essays submitted by students who were seemingly unabashed by the practice. What is the cost, I thought, of not doing one’s own thinking, wrestling with ideas and writing, and taking full responsibility — and ownership — of their work?
And my meditation continued, I thought about the state of the world right now, ablaze with violence and wars and hardships, and The Perilous Comfort of thinking “that doesn’t have anything to do with me.” What is the cost, I wondered, of forgetting about our radical interdependence, of what is sometimes called ubuntu, “I am, because we are.” Perilous Comfort doesn’t see the ways our lives affect, and are affected by, others.
I suspect you can come up with your own Cautionary Tales of Perilous Comfort, too, because they are all around us; they are the stuff of life, even though we can be so easily blind to them. Pretending they don’t exist is costly, and yet confronting them also comes with a cost. It is not easy to be honest with ourselves when our own comfort is at stake.
But the costs of our avoidance are mounting every day. Real harm is being inflicted on the innocent every day. Those affected include refugees, LGBTQ+ individuals, those protesting the destruction of our civic life, those protecting our natural world — and the natural world itself, the state and local governments starved of resources to feed, house and provide medicine … to name just a few. The more we look around, the more damage we can see, and some of that hurt is directly related to our attachment to our own comforts. “I just want to live my own life,” “please leave me in peace,” “this really isn’t any of my business,” are all ways to protect comfort. And they all come with peril.
How do we, individually and collectively, counter impulses toward “comfort first?” Religious traditions have a word for this — it’s discernment. Discernment is an invitation to pause, to reflect, to resist the headlong plunge into what looks just fine and dandy. Discernment is characterized by questions that dig deeper than this immediate moment. Will what I am about to do build or discard my unique identity as a cherished and beloved human? Will it cause harm, or compromise someone else’s unique humanity or agency? Is my action in alignment with a loving divine presence? Does it honor that presence in every being?
True discernment is about more than desire — more than comfort. It’s about understanding our motivations and the effects of our actions — and our inactions. It’s about seeing a moment frozen in time, on the cusp — snowmen! fire! — and extending the story in both directions. How the heck did we get here? And where the heck is this going?
To discern fully is to be fully human. Which, at times, is not very comfortable, and almost always perilous.
The Rev. Alison Cornish is a Unitarian Universalist minister living in Shelburne Falls. She appreciates all the area’s artists who offer us their work for our meditations – and entertainment.