From Joe Jackson to Jamie Spears, the world is well-acquainted with the overbearing stage father. It seems the success of any adolescent involves a controlling parent who has one hand pulling the strings and another hand in the till. For some reason, the over-zealous father figure is particularly familiar in the sport of tennis — Andre Agassi, Steffi Graff and Jelena Dokic all suffered under paternal pressure — and one could easily assume King Richard is the latest installment. The story of Richard Williams, the man who raised, trained and managed his daughters, Venus and Serena, to greatness has all the features of a domineering dad. But there’s a difference between Richard Williams and his counterparts. The girls seem to actually love their father.
Many of the reviews say the film is flawed because it oversimplifies Richard Williams’ character. The man is flawed, for sure, but he comes off as mostly charming for a guy whose neighbors repeatedly reported child abuse. It’s hard not to be suspicious of someone who writes a 78-page plan for his daughters to achieve greatness before they are even born. Richard Williams seems to have controlled every part of his daughters’ lives. He even purposely moved his family to Compton so that his girls would develop more grit and perseverance. Not exactly the model for today’s gentle parenting trends.
In interviews over the years, Venus and Serena freely acknowledge the sacrifices they’ve made to become such legends. While most kids were riding bikes or at the mall, the Williams sisters were working on their serves and volleys. Under their father’s regimen, neither rain, nor heat nor gloom of night ever excused them from the tennis court. At the same time, they were safeguarded from burnout. The girls were kept out of grueling junior tournaments and protected from being exploited by sponsors. Before every match, their father would tell them, “Go out there and have fun.”
Throughout the film, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely, the girls resented their father for being so demanding. Surely, Richard’s tactics would lead to rebellion. But, despite all odds, Richard’s daughters exude genuine respect and affection for him. They seem to have interpreted his grueling work ethic as an expression of love.
This is the part where you say, “It’s a movie! Movies are not real life!” And, yes, as executive producers, Venus and Serena have undoubtedly shaped their narrative. But if you risk taking the story at face value, there’s something profound about the loving and affirming way the Williams family treats each other. What seemed like a classic example of law — a father pushing his children to their limits — was somehow a medium for grace.
The story of the Williams family shows that it’s not enough to simply reduce the Law and the Gospel to a grammatical pattern. This is what Jonathan Linebaugh is talking about in his new book, that, according to Luther, “divine speech does not merely correspond to but actually creates reality.” In other words, God’s Word is not confined to our rules. It has a life of its own. Almost invariably, the law means no and the gospel means yes, but it’s not always quite that clean.
Take Scripture, for instance. It’s not always as simple as getting a red pen for Law and a yellow pen for Gospel and underlining which verses apply accordingly. You can say something that you instinctively know as good news and it might land differently on someone else’s ears. “Christ died for your sins” can be heard as “I’ve got sins.” Or take the words, “I am the Lord your God. You should have no God before me.” Those words will almost always ring as judgement. But hidden within this law is a promise: “I am the Lord your God.” To some, it is a relief to know that the God of the universe is somehow a personal god: I am your God.
What can usually sound like law now sounds more like gospel. Suddenly those two dichotomies are less black and white than they seemed. Even though they have ordinary content, law and gospel are not reducible or limited to semantics. It’s not the linguistic form that counts, but what the actual word of God does to a certain person in a certain situation. When it comes to presenting law and gospel, Scripture is far more dynamic — one might even say inspired.
Telling an overworked student to drop an SAT prep class can be tremendously relieving. On the other hand, signing up a student for an SAT prep class can be strangely empowering to a student no one has ever bothered to believe in. In other words, love is not a formula. Likewise, a father pushing his daughters to greatness may seem like the epitome of law, but the way his words are communicated (and received!) is just as important as what’s being said. Love can look like a father telling his daughter “You can do it!” It can also look like a father embracing her after a grueling defeat. For Venus and Serena Williams, their father happens to do both.
Before each practice session, Richard Williams would hang two signs up on the chain link fence behind the baseline of the Compton public tennis courts: “You Are a Winner” and “If You Fail to Plan, You Plan to Fail.” At first, I couldn’t help but wince when imagining the pressure these signs must have put on Venus and Serena. I interpreted these signs as law, as saying, “Thou Shalt Not Fail. Thou Shalt Win!” And yet, the more I saw these girls relate to their father, the more I believed these signs to be received as good news. After all, Richard told his girls they were winners years before they even played their first match. The signs may as well have said, “These are my daughters, in them I am well pleased!” the same words Jesus’ beaming Father declared before Jesus ever healed a leper.
In the end, we will never know the entire Williams family story. But the story of King Richard shows us that love is deeply personal. It is not formulaic but, instead, strangely specific. What worked for one child may not work for another child. Likewise, God does not always speak in blanket statements to the masses, but a specific Word to a specific person. Not as an overbearing dad, but as a loving Father.
COMMENTS
3 responses to “The Gracious Possibility of Tough Love”
Leave a Reply
“Take Scripture, for instance. It’s not always as simple as getting a red pen for Law and a yellow pen for Gospel and underlining which verses apply accordingly. You can say something that you instinctively know as good news and it might land differently on someone else’s ears. “Christ died for your sins” can be heard as “I’ve got sins.” Or take the words, “I am the Lord your God. You should have no God before me.” Those words will almost always ring as judgement. But hidden within this law is a promise: “I am the Lord your God.” To some, it is a relief to know that the God of the universe is somehow a personal god: I am your God.
What can usually sound like law now sounds more like gospel. Suddenly those two dichotomies are less black and white than they seemed. Even though they have ordinary content, law and gospel are not reducible or limited to semantics. It’s not the linguistic form that counts, but what the actual word of God does to a certain person in a certain situation. When it comes to presenting law and gospel, Scripture is far more dynamic — one might even say inspired.”
This is not so much something “hidden within the law (ala the “deeper magic” that is the fundament of Narnia). The nexus between the Law and the Gospel that determines the effect on the hearer – the “living word” Luther is talking about – is the crucified and risen Word made Flesh.
A wonderful piece and a gentle cautionary tale on the need to be thoughtful about neatly dividing bible verses (and the broader culture — parenting and beyond) into quick, distinct categories of “law” and “grace.”
Bravo, Mr. Bush!
[…] Before “the slap,” King Richard was a Hollywood must-see. It still is. […]