The Book of John, Chapter 4
Chapter 4 - What Makes a Man
This is my son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. - Matthew 3:17
As it turned out, there were plenty of beautiful girls in Geneva. Some of them didn’t even speak English, and some of them dressed just as seductively as Betsy Mills. And lots of them found me endearing/adorable/fun/attractive and worthy of random, and increasingly intimate, sexual gratification.
It was one of these girls who would take me to bed for the first time. She was older - 21, as I recall, and a “real woman,” and so my teenage brain didn’t argue.
She didn’t want to know what I wanted. She didn’t demand anything beyond one night in which she promised to make me a man.
Ironically, afterward, I wouldn’t date anyone for almost a year. She made me a man, all right; the kind of man who realized that the next time he was with a woman, he wanted it to be for love.
I don’t even remember her name.
The Dilgar War continued for just over a year, until the Dilgar surrendered at the Battle of Balos in 2232 - as any history book would tell you. What the history books don’t tell you, however, is that my father was there when the surrender treaty was signed… and so was I.
It would be the first such meeting at which I was present. It certainly would not be the last.
It seemed that my father realized about this time that I was becoming a man, at least in the lawful regard, and it was time for me to choose a path in life. I didn’t have any plans to attend college; didn’t have a steady girlfriend that I wanted to make my wife; and aside from baseball and a little bit of interest in history, I didn’t have any real hobbies. I was directionless, and that didn’t bother me. I was content to let the universe work itself out around me.
My father, on the other hand, believed that if I didn’t get involved in the world, if I refused to take interest in my future, then the world would roll right over me. And so he started to take me on business trips. The signing of the Dilgar treaty was a very good first move. It sparked an interest - a very small spark, granted, but a spark nonetheless - in current events and military strategy. I remember very clearly the ride home afterward; I was relentless with my questioning. Why had the Dilgar surrendered? What was different about Balos as opposed to all the battles that came before it? Why had the Earth Alliance presence turned the tide of the war - what did the Humans know that the League worlds couldn’t figure out? And why, when we won, had we negotiated a surrender treaty? They had slaughtered millions; why had we not returned the favor?
My father was quiet for a long, long time at this last question. I remember sinking back in my seat, my questions exhausted, my mind spinning. I was sure he wouldn’t answer, though I couldn’t fathom why. And then, just when I had accepted that we would travel the rest of the way to Earth in silence, he looked at me, his jaw set, eyes as solemn as I’d ever seen them. “The thing about evil, John,” he said, and there was something in his tone - something that said this was one of those lessons I ought to keep at the ready for later use, “is that you have to find a way to fight against it without becoming it yourself. When you are victorious, the best possible way to claim that victory is with mercy. Be fair,” he stressed with a raise of his eyebrows. “I’m not saying a losing side shouldn’t be held responsible for its actions. But be merciful.”
He put me behind the controls of a Starfury when I was 18, and the two of us flew the triangular route to the moon and Mars and back. It was an alley I’d get to know well in my first assignment as a soldier; fitting that it should be the trip that ignited my interest in space and caused that spark lit by the signing of the Dilgar treaty to grow into a cautious flame. “Can we do it again?” I asked as we sat together on the landing pad afterward, eating lunch out of paper bags. I felt like a real man then, wearing a flight suit, talking leisurely with my father in a discussion that I knew wouldn’t end in a shouting match.
“Sure, John. Sure.”
I sometimes think he was just so tickled to see me take a keen interest in something that he would’ve agreed no matter what that interest was, but he made good on his promise.
Next time we went further, and the next time, further still. Over the next three years we visited the moon, Mars, Proxima, Io, Orion… and then out of Earth’s system and into others. Drazi. Narn. Centauri Prime.
Centauri Prime… she was beautiful, back then. Green trees, blue skies, topiary gardens, amazing architecture. I even met the emperor.
I wish you all could’ve seen it… before.
We explored closer to home as well, and I could see the pride in my father’s eyes as he introduced me to world and military leaders, to his fellow diplomats, to ambassadors and presidents alike. He was carefully paving a road for me, getting me in front of the right people, and I bathed myself in the fatherly pride he exuded every time he said, “This is my son, John.”
When I was 21, he took me to meet the Dalai Lama, and that visit changed my life forever. It was the tipping point for everything my father had been trying to build for me, and in me; it unleashed the fire that had been slowly building inside me over the years, and from that day I’ve never looked back - never regretted the choice I made as a result of a very simple question from a wise old man.
Everyone who’s ever served under me has heard this story, but it bears repeating for those who’ve never had the privilege.
***
“What do you think about Buddhism, John?”
John pondered the question as he stood beside his father outside Tibet’s Buddhist Temple. “I like it,” he said with a slow nod of his head.
“OK. Why?”
The questions had been coming like this throughout their travels - What do you think of this? Why? And no matter John's opinion, David never told his son he was wrong - though they did often have differences in opinion that led to heated discussions, even arguments. Still, it made John feel like a real adult, like his opinion mattered. It also forced him to think critically on advanced subjects, something he hadn’t been very good at in school, and he was sure that was his father’s intent. “Because…” He thought a moment on his words. When he was asked for an opinion on a big subject like this (religion. Ten years ago he would never have believed he’d be standing in Tibet, debating religion with his father), “Because it’s eclectic. It doesn’t judge, doesn’t narrow the field to one pattern of belief. It encourages peace and tolerance, and anyone can be a Buddhist.”
“And do you consider yourself a Buddhist?”
John shook his head. “No. I once hit a boy over an orange.” He smirked at his father, shooting him a half smile, and it was returned in kind, an almost identical facial expression.
“That was a long time ago, son. I think that misstep has been absolved, no matter your belief system.” David stepped up inside the Temple, and John followed, shaking his head at his father’s words.
As they entered, David removed his shoes. John, a bit flustered, followed suit. A man with remarkably wrinkled skin sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, watching them. He’d been looking forward to this visit; David Sheridan was as kind and gentle a soul as he’d ever known, and the young man who came in with him could only be the diplomat’s son. They had been discussing John for years - David’s concern for the boy’s development, his maturity, his direction in life. The American diplomat had asked this favor, asked to be able to bring his son to dinner, in the hopes that he might learn something. The old man had agreed. It seemed the right thing to do.
John was impossibly tall - probably six feet, with room and time to grow. His hair was longer and shaggier than the old man thought necessary, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that spoke of promise and destiny. David was right. This boy was special, if only he would become the arrow in the bow.
He said very little, motioning for the pair to join him on the floor. A short time later, dinner was served. It was the same dinner the old man had eaten every night for many years - a bowl of steamed rice, accented by carrots and raisins, and green tea. The diplomat’s son was respectful - when he was not spoken to, he did not speak. He ate more slowly than the old man expected, keeping pace with the others.
He wanted very much to speak with the boy alone, and so when the meal was over, he motioned with his hand. Wordlessly, David Sheridan stood, patted his son reassuringly on the shoulder, and left. Before John could move to follow his father, the old man spoke to him. “Do you understand?”
Puzzled, John remained where he was seated, shifting slightly as the cross-legged position became uncomfortable. His brow creased, and he shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”
The old man’s wrinkled skin split into a wide smile at that. “Good beginning,” he said, nodding, as though John’s response had led the Dalai Lama to form a positive opinion of the boy. “You will be even better when you begin to understand what you do not understand.”
Well - John sure as heck didn’t understand that, either. He waited for the elder to speak again, to explain himself further, to give John more instruction, more direction, a hint, anything - but he did not. They sat in silence for several minutes before David returned to collect his son.
It was a very quiet ride home.
John spent months running those words through his head, puzzling on their meaning.
Meanwhile in Tibet, a wise old man slept better knowing there was yet still kindness and wonder in the youth of the world. He prayed for the son of David Sheridan, that he would grasp his potential soon and make something of it, for he believed in his heart that the future belonged to those who refused to settle - and this boy would not settle for “I don’t understand.” The simple, meaningful words spoken in the temple that day would stay with the boy, and he would puzzle them and think on them until they drove him to an action or an epiphany - or both, if he was lucky.
The old man smiled.
There was something very special about young John Sheridan.
It would likely be both.
This is my son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. - Matthew 3:17
As it turned out, there were plenty of beautiful girls in Geneva. Some of them didn’t even speak English, and some of them dressed just as seductively as Betsy Mills. And lots of them found me endearing/adorable/fun/attractive and worthy of random, and increasingly intimate, sexual gratification.
It was one of these girls who would take me to bed for the first time. She was older - 21, as I recall, and a “real woman,” and so my teenage brain didn’t argue.
She didn’t want to know what I wanted. She didn’t demand anything beyond one night in which she promised to make me a man.
Ironically, afterward, I wouldn’t date anyone for almost a year. She made me a man, all right; the kind of man who realized that the next time he was with a woman, he wanted it to be for love.
I don’t even remember her name.
The Dilgar War continued for just over a year, until the Dilgar surrendered at the Battle of Balos in 2232 - as any history book would tell you. What the history books don’t tell you, however, is that my father was there when the surrender treaty was signed… and so was I.
It would be the first such meeting at which I was present. It certainly would not be the last.
It seemed that my father realized about this time that I was becoming a man, at least in the lawful regard, and it was time for me to choose a path in life. I didn’t have any plans to attend college; didn’t have a steady girlfriend that I wanted to make my wife; and aside from baseball and a little bit of interest in history, I didn’t have any real hobbies. I was directionless, and that didn’t bother me. I was content to let the universe work itself out around me.
My father, on the other hand, believed that if I didn’t get involved in the world, if I refused to take interest in my future, then the world would roll right over me. And so he started to take me on business trips. The signing of the Dilgar treaty was a very good first move. It sparked an interest - a very small spark, granted, but a spark nonetheless - in current events and military strategy. I remember very clearly the ride home afterward; I was relentless with my questioning. Why had the Dilgar surrendered? What was different about Balos as opposed to all the battles that came before it? Why had the Earth Alliance presence turned the tide of the war - what did the Humans know that the League worlds couldn’t figure out? And why, when we won, had we negotiated a surrender treaty? They had slaughtered millions; why had we not returned the favor?
My father was quiet for a long, long time at this last question. I remember sinking back in my seat, my questions exhausted, my mind spinning. I was sure he wouldn’t answer, though I couldn’t fathom why. And then, just when I had accepted that we would travel the rest of the way to Earth in silence, he looked at me, his jaw set, eyes as solemn as I’d ever seen them. “The thing about evil, John,” he said, and there was something in his tone - something that said this was one of those lessons I ought to keep at the ready for later use, “is that you have to find a way to fight against it without becoming it yourself. When you are victorious, the best possible way to claim that victory is with mercy. Be fair,” he stressed with a raise of his eyebrows. “I’m not saying a losing side shouldn’t be held responsible for its actions. But be merciful.”
He put me behind the controls of a Starfury when I was 18, and the two of us flew the triangular route to the moon and Mars and back. It was an alley I’d get to know well in my first assignment as a soldier; fitting that it should be the trip that ignited my interest in space and caused that spark lit by the signing of the Dilgar treaty to grow into a cautious flame. “Can we do it again?” I asked as we sat together on the landing pad afterward, eating lunch out of paper bags. I felt like a real man then, wearing a flight suit, talking leisurely with my father in a discussion that I knew wouldn’t end in a shouting match.
“Sure, John. Sure.”
I sometimes think he was just so tickled to see me take a keen interest in something that he would’ve agreed no matter what that interest was, but he made good on his promise.
Next time we went further, and the next time, further still. Over the next three years we visited the moon, Mars, Proxima, Io, Orion… and then out of Earth’s system and into others. Drazi. Narn. Centauri Prime.
Centauri Prime… she was beautiful, back then. Green trees, blue skies, topiary gardens, amazing architecture. I even met the emperor.
I wish you all could’ve seen it… before.
We explored closer to home as well, and I could see the pride in my father’s eyes as he introduced me to world and military leaders, to his fellow diplomats, to ambassadors and presidents alike. He was carefully paving a road for me, getting me in front of the right people, and I bathed myself in the fatherly pride he exuded every time he said, “This is my son, John.”
When I was 21, he took me to meet the Dalai Lama, and that visit changed my life forever. It was the tipping point for everything my father had been trying to build for me, and in me; it unleashed the fire that had been slowly building inside me over the years, and from that day I’ve never looked back - never regretted the choice I made as a result of a very simple question from a wise old man.
Everyone who’s ever served under me has heard this story, but it bears repeating for those who’ve never had the privilege.
***
“What do you think about Buddhism, John?”
John pondered the question as he stood beside his father outside Tibet’s Buddhist Temple. “I like it,” he said with a slow nod of his head.
“OK. Why?”
The questions had been coming like this throughout their travels - What do you think of this? Why? And no matter John's opinion, David never told his son he was wrong - though they did often have differences in opinion that led to heated discussions, even arguments. Still, it made John feel like a real adult, like his opinion mattered. It also forced him to think critically on advanced subjects, something he hadn’t been very good at in school, and he was sure that was his father’s intent. “Because…” He thought a moment on his words. When he was asked for an opinion on a big subject like this (religion. Ten years ago he would never have believed he’d be standing in Tibet, debating religion with his father), “Because it’s eclectic. It doesn’t judge, doesn’t narrow the field to one pattern of belief. It encourages peace and tolerance, and anyone can be a Buddhist.”
“And do you consider yourself a Buddhist?”
John shook his head. “No. I once hit a boy over an orange.” He smirked at his father, shooting him a half smile, and it was returned in kind, an almost identical facial expression.
“That was a long time ago, son. I think that misstep has been absolved, no matter your belief system.” David stepped up inside the Temple, and John followed, shaking his head at his father’s words.
As they entered, David removed his shoes. John, a bit flustered, followed suit. A man with remarkably wrinkled skin sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, watching them. He’d been looking forward to this visit; David Sheridan was as kind and gentle a soul as he’d ever known, and the young man who came in with him could only be the diplomat’s son. They had been discussing John for years - David’s concern for the boy’s development, his maturity, his direction in life. The American diplomat had asked this favor, asked to be able to bring his son to dinner, in the hopes that he might learn something. The old man had agreed. It seemed the right thing to do.
John was impossibly tall - probably six feet, with room and time to grow. His hair was longer and shaggier than the old man thought necessary, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that spoke of promise and destiny. David was right. This boy was special, if only he would become the arrow in the bow.
He said very little, motioning for the pair to join him on the floor. A short time later, dinner was served. It was the same dinner the old man had eaten every night for many years - a bowl of steamed rice, accented by carrots and raisins, and green tea. The diplomat’s son was respectful - when he was not spoken to, he did not speak. He ate more slowly than the old man expected, keeping pace with the others.
He wanted very much to speak with the boy alone, and so when the meal was over, he motioned with his hand. Wordlessly, David Sheridan stood, patted his son reassuringly on the shoulder, and left. Before John could move to follow his father, the old man spoke to him. “Do you understand?”
Puzzled, John remained where he was seated, shifting slightly as the cross-legged position became uncomfortable. His brow creased, and he shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”
The old man’s wrinkled skin split into a wide smile at that. “Good beginning,” he said, nodding, as though John’s response had led the Dalai Lama to form a positive opinion of the boy. “You will be even better when you begin to understand what you do not understand.”
Well - John sure as heck didn’t understand that, either. He waited for the elder to speak again, to explain himself further, to give John more instruction, more direction, a hint, anything - but he did not. They sat in silence for several minutes before David returned to collect his son.
It was a very quiet ride home.
John spent months running those words through his head, puzzling on their meaning.
Meanwhile in Tibet, a wise old man slept better knowing there was yet still kindness and wonder in the youth of the world. He prayed for the son of David Sheridan, that he would grasp his potential soon and make something of it, for he believed in his heart that the future belonged to those who refused to settle - and this boy would not settle for “I don’t understand.” The simple, meaningful words spoken in the temple that day would stay with the boy, and he would puzzle them and think on them until they drove him to an action or an epiphany - or both, if he was lucky.
The old man smiled.
There was something very special about young John Sheridan.
It would likely be both.