Benevolent King – Practical Theology Today

As I read through the Gospels this past month, I was repeatedly struck by the image of Jesus as a servant. After reading John 13, I began to realize that Jesus is not only a Benevolent King, but a Servant King. So I had ChatGPT review The Parable of the Benevolent King and offer a “Servant King” version of the parable. For what it’s worth, this is what ChatGPT created…

The Parable of the Servant King and the Kingdom of Merea

Long ago, nestled between green hills and silver streams, there was a kingdom unlike any other. It bore no grand name, yet its people called it Merea, meaning “beloved dwelling.” It had no towering walls, no boastful banners, and no gleaming thrones—but it had a king.

His name was Elandir, though few addressed him by it. To most, he was simply the Servant King.

He wore no crown, save the sun-weathered hood of his traveling cloak. He carried no scepter, only a staff worn smooth from walking with the people. He lived not in a distant palace, but in a modest home at the heart of the village square, where he could be seen each day mending fences, helping mothers lift heavy buckets, or kneeling beside the sick.

Though he could command legions, he chose instead to lead by invitation, not by force. His strength was in his nearness.

The People of the Kingdom

In Merea, everyone had a place, and everyone had a part to play—not out of obligation, but out of gratitude. The king’s way inspired imitation.

The Stone-Menders fixed broken pathways, not for praise, but to ensure the elderly didn’t stumble. The Bread-Makers baked before dawn, leaving warm loaves on the doorsteps of those in need. The Fire-Keepers walked the streets on cold nights, carrying embers to reignite the hearths of the poor.

There were Listeners whose task was to visit the lonely, to sit, nod, and remind the forgotten they were seen. There were Messengers, not to carry royal edicts, but to deliver encouragement, celebrate births, and mourn losses with the grieving. Even the Children had their ministry—they brought laughter, drew chalk flowers on the town square, and reminded the old how to dance.

The Servant King gave no titles. He said that the most honored were those least noticed.

Each day he would rise before the sun and walk the length of the town, checking on the sick, delivering water, patching roofs, and praying quietly for his people. And when asked why he did such menial tasks, he would smile and say, “Because love kneels.”

Why So Many Came

The stories of Merea spread like spring wind. In lands where kings rode stallions and ruled with iron fists, the idea of a ruler who served seemed like a tale for children. Yet as the tales persisted, people began to wonder: Could such a place exist?

Travelers came—some limping, others tired of being used, many carrying wounds too deep to name. They expected gates, guards, and bureaucracy. Instead, they found the king himself waiting at the edge of the road with a cup of water and a question: “Would you like to come home?”

They stayed, not because of riches or promises, but because they were seen, known, and loved. Here, they weren’t asked what they could produce—but who they were becoming. In a world driven by status and achievement, Merea whispered a different word: belonging.

Those Who Chose to Leave

Yet not all who arrived stayed. Some grew frustrated at the Servant King’s ways. They wanted to climb ladders, not wash feet. They asked, “Why does no one rise above the rest here?” And the king, with gentleness, would reply, “Because we rise together.”

But for those who equated worth with control, it was not enough.

A few grew discontented with the slow pace of mercy. They wanted results, not relationship—efficiency, not empathy. They said, “This kingdom is too soft, too slow, too kind.” And the king, though grieved, did not chain them. He only walked with them to the edge of the kingdom and said, “Should you wish to return, the door will always remain open.”

Others left quietly—not out of anger, but from fear. The love they found in Merea felt too complete, too undeserved. They whispered, “I’m not worthy.” And though the king assured them, “None are, that’s why love bends low,” some still turned away, unable to receive what could not be earned.

A Kingdom That Keeps Giving

Yet the Servant King did not despair. He kept sowing seeds, bandaging wounds, listening to stories, and setting tables. The kingdom did not grow by conquest, but by kindness. It expanded not in borders, but in beauty.

Children raised in Merea grew up with strong hands and soft hearts. The old passed their wisdom to the young, and no one was left behind. Festivals were thrown, not for profit, but to celebrate life together. And in every corner of the land, the fragrance of compassion lingered.

And still, the Servant King walks the roads. Some say he’s grown older. Others say he’s only grown deeper—his eyes full of both sorrow and joy. He still waits by the gates each morning, lantern in hand, ready to welcome the next weary traveler who dares to believe that greatness might be found in kneeling love.

Once upon a time, long ago, in a land where mist settled in the meadows and the sun filtered through ancient oaks, there reigned a king unlike any other. His name was Aldemar the Benevolent, and though his crown was gold and his scepter carved from silver and inlaid with jewels, it was his heart, not his wealth, that made him beloved. Tales of his kindness traveled far beyond the kingdom’s borders — stories of a king who walked the village streets talking with the common folk, a king whose hands lifted burdens rather than added to them.

In Aldemar’s kingdom, there was a place for all. The castle gates were never barred, save in times of danger, and even then, emissaries were sent to guide the lost to safety. His subjects were not mere vassals but partners in building a kingdom where justice, mercy, and love flourished.

The scribes in Aldemar’s court labored not merely to copy laws or record taxes but to pen letters of encouragement to distant villages, chronicling the king’s mercies and sending words of hope to the lowly. They preserved not just royal decrees but stories of kindness done in secret to remind the land that even the smallest gesture was part of the kingdom’s ethos.

Farmers and gardeners tilled the soil not only to produce harvests for the tables but to ensure beauty flourished throughout the land. In Aldemar’s realm, gardens were not just for show but for refuge — places where the weary could sit, smell the fragrances, and know peace.

The healers, trained in herbs and salves, walked the roads beside the peasants, carrying bandages, warm hands, and listening ears. In Aldemar’s mind, healing was not just the mending of wounds but restoring dignity, so the healers gave both.

The knights were formidable, but their first loyalty was not to conquest but to the protection of the vulnerable. Each knight swore an oath to defend the weak, to stand in the gap between danger and the defenseless, and to ensure that no cry for help went unheard.

Cooks, weavers, and smiths understood their work to be sacred. A meal offered with joy, a cloak stitched with care, a plow forged to last — each was an offering, a gift that built the kingdom. The king taught them to see that even the unnoticed labor, when done in love, added to the strength of the realm.

Even the children had their role. They carried garlands of flowers to new arrivals at the gates, reminding all who entered that they were welcome, not because of what they could do, but because of who they were — beloved by the king.

People clamored to enter the kingdom…

Beyond the borders of Aldemar’s reign lay kingdoms ruled by greed, fear, and ambition. In those lands, taxes crushed the poor, soldiers enforced the whims of selfish lords, and kindness was mistaken for weakness. News of Aldemar’s kingdom was like a beacon shining in the gloom.

Travelers outside the kingdom spoke of a king who knew his people by name, who sat with beggars, who wept with widows, who offered justice tempered with mercy.

Word spread that in Aldemar’s realm, one was not only provided for but cherished. Pilgrims crossed deserts, forded rivers, and braved robbers to reach his gates. When they arrived, they found themselves welcomed not as strangers but as long-lost family. King Aldemar believed that every soul bore the image of the Divine, and to mistreat one was to wound heaven itself.

Some chose to leave…

Yet, not all who entered remained. There were some who could not abide Aldemar’s ways. They were those who desired power for themselves — who longed to sit above others rather than beside them. In a kingdom where all served one another, there was no place for those who sought to hoard wealth, status, or control.

Some chafed at the king’s mercy. They demanded harsher punishments for those who failed, forgetting that they, too, had stumbled upon their arrival. They desired a kingdom where strength meant dominance, not gentleness. To them, Aldemar’s strengths of kindness and humility were seen as weaknesses. So they left, seeking thrones of their own.

There were others — not wicked, but restless. The call of distant lands, the lure of personal glory, or the simple fear that such goodness was too good to be true, led them away. They doubted that a kingdom built on love could endure in a world so harsh, so they sought fortunes elsewhere, mistaking freedom for isolation.

A kingdom still open…

Even for those who left, Aldemar never shut the gate. His knights stood ready to guide the lost home. His healers kept salves for wounds inflicted in the wild lands. His children wove garlands anew for prodigals who found their way back. And the King, each night, stood on the highest tower, lantern in hand, scanning the horizon for the shadow of a returning wanderer. For in Aldemar’s kingdom, no one was beyond welcome. No one was beyond hope.

The light continues to shine in the kingdom of Aldemar the Benevolent. And even today, the gates stand open for any who would come.

A postscript: Etymology and meaning of the fictional name, Aldemar (not tied to any historical figure). Aldemar has roots that loosely combine elements from Old Germanic languages. “Alde” can relate to old or wise, emphasizing a sense of enduring wisdom. “Mar” could stem from elements meaning fame, greatness, or renown. Together, Aldemar could be interpreted as “renowned for wisdom” or “famous ruler” — a fitting name for a king whose greatness is rooted not in power, but in his kindness and discernment.