The shelves of fiction are many and varied. Fantasy alone contains enough subgenres to sink a battleship. But the standard for any kind of good fiction is this: it must contain theology of some kind. And sometimes that theology isn’t even Christian in origin.
Theology is woven through fiction that endures across generations, from Gilgamesh to Narnia to The Little Mermaid.
Homer gave us a man whose driving desire was to return to his wife, his son, and his home. Jesus used parables again and again to teach the theology of the Kingdom of Heaven. Austen gave us characters whose romantic love had a cost. Dickens questioned cultural assumptions by showing his readers the plight of the people living beneath them. Stowe wrote a novel that helped fuel antislavery sentiment in the years leading up to the Civil War.¹
Good fiction reflects a worldview, and worldview is dictated by one’s philosophy and theology.
All fiction contains it.
For some writers, the driving belief is that human beings possess the capability for creating their own courage, loyalty, honor, and greatness, even while being deeply flawed. Homer gives us plenty of that. For others, it is the wondrous grace of God bestowed on characters after they have failed miserably. Lewis gives us that again and again.
Not all good fiction contains good theology.
But the hill I will die on is this: if a writer endeavors to put good theology into a story, then that story ought to be told in such a way that it also makes for good fiction.
In this three-part series, I will look at good fiction as good art and the influence it should have on the reader; ask whether there should be a distinct divide between Christian and secular fiction; and advocate for groups I believe have been left out of the marketing of fiction written for and by Christians.
I. Christian Fiction as Gospel Tract: What Does Biblical Worldview Have to Do With It?
Some of the Christian fiction I grew up reading contained excellent theology and terrible storytelling. I cannot even say that was always because the author did not understand why he believed what he believed. Some of those writers clearly did.
Some poorly plotted Christian fiction was likely influenced by the mass production and rapid expansion of inexpensive paperback publishing.2 But I do not think that explains all of the cringe-worthy Christian fiction that came out of the late twentieth century.
So I keep coming back to another question.
Why did a good grasp of doctrinal arguments so often seem to come at the expense of the reality of life, character arc, motive, and believable dialogue?
Why did we ever act as though we had to choose?
Did this surge in poorly crafted fiction have anything to do with the grasp Christians had on their own doctrine—or lack thereof?
Christian theology ought to give a writer more to work with, not less.
Bethany House published Janette Oke’s Love Comes Softly in 1979.3 In 1980, Christianity Today reported that 49 percent of Protestants could name only four or fewer of the Ten Commandments.4
Indeed, I am not the only one who experienced this tragic phenomenon. I will cover this particular topic in more depth next week. This tension between story and evangelistic purpose was not merely an accusation from critics. By 1999, Publishers Weekly was reporting that Christian publishers themselves were placing greater emphasis on story and character, while moving proselytizing into what the magazine called a supporting role.⁵
Now, lest anyone think I am disparaging Mrs. Oke’s novel, Love Comes Softly actually contains very, very good theology. It turned some of the assumptions of modern romance on their head.
Could a woman fall in love with a good man whose love was demonstrated through protection instead of flowers, provision instead of gifts, and steadiness instead of sensitivity?
Oke’s answer was yes. More importantly, Clark loved Marty before Marty returned that love.
“But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”
—Romans 5:8
“We love him, because he first loved us.”
—1 John 4:19
So what did Mrs. Oke get right that so many others who followed in her footsteps seemed to miss?
I argue that her fiction reflects a formative and foundational understanding of theology, anthropology, and the doctrine of grace. Couple this to her ability to translate that understanding into her stories and one finds excellent fiction married to excellent theology.
Clark does not need to explain the doctrine of grace to Marty for the reader to encounter it. He lives it. He loves before he is loved in return. He provides without knowing whether affection will ever follow. He remains steady when Marty cannot give him what he might reasonably desire from a wife.
The theology does not interrupt the romance. The theology creates the romance.
The romance creates a beautiful story, and Mrs. Oke threaded that particular creation of art with magnificent craft.
If art is downstream from culture, then Mrs. Oke recognized that her readers would come for a story that wove a biblical understanding of romance into the larger theological frame of her work.
II. Is Storytelling an Act of Worship and Obedience to the Father?
Theology does us little good if it can only survive inside a dissertation. Some people are built to learn that way. Most people are not.
Truth should also be teachable through story, conversation, example, consequence, and practice.
The theology of the Kingdom of Heaven, the revelation of God in the Scriptures, and the awesome doctrine of grace are central to the whole narrative of the Bible.
The greatest narrative ever given to man ought to be the standard by which we measure our grasp of the enormous responsibility to craft our own writing well.
The plan of salvation squished into the mouth of the protagonist on page 207 is a poor way to give the gospel indeed, when the gospel should already be lived out through the lives of the characters, their actions, and their reactions.
That is not to say an explicit presentation of the gospel has no place in fiction. If the story naturally brings a character to a sermon, a conversation about salvation, or a moment of conversion, then tell it plainly. But let it arise from a realistic context within the story rather than inserting it simply because a Christian novel is expected to contain one.
And if you are going to write a conversion into your story, this is where your grasp of good theology becomes especially important.
I would implore you to resist relying on phrases simply because they have become familiar in Christian culture. “Ask Jesus into your heart,” for example, is not the language Scripture itself uses to explain how a sinner is saved.
If you are going to portray conversion, know what the Bible actually teaches about conversion.
Some characters will be in a place in their arc where a few well-timed statements on the grace of God will not induce conversion. Some characters should resist the grace that calls them. The one who doesn’t then ought to find that salvation is but the start of the believer’s journey.
Conversion does not result in sunshine and roses in a Christian’s life in reality. Neither should it in your story.
Let your character repent. Let him believe. Let him call upon the Lord. Let him wrestle honestly with sin, guilt, grace, and the finished work of Christ.
III. The Motive of the Storyteller
For those of us who dare to write from a Christian perspective, let us also be aware of the extraordinary responsibility that comes with the stewardship of craft.
Simple entertainment cannot be the only goal of our storytelling.
What we write ought to come from a heart that desires to honor Christ and, in whatever way the story allows, to be used in the furtherance of the Kingdom of Heaven.
If one is going to steward theology in fiction, then the example of Christ is imperative to the task.
“Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus…”
—Philippians 2:5–8
Whether the temptation is pious superiority or the need to shackle the reader to the rightness of our convictions will not matter in eternity.
The outcome of a story’s impact does not belong to the author. Therefore, we steward the gift God has given us: storytelling.
For those of us who offer our writing as ministry, the proper posture must be one of humility.
The story is not an altar upon which we sacrifice the reader to prove that we are right. The story itself is the offering.
It is laid before the Saviour who died to give us the life, the mind, and the ability to write it in the first place.
When the first desire of our fiction is to bring honor to the Father, then our desire to show His Truth to others finds its proper place.
We are no longer trying to win an argument through our characters.
We are trying to steward truth faithfully.
God used imperfect men and writers to put to paper His mind concerning what is right and wrong, how what is wrong can be made right, and how we ought to walk once it has been.
“All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness.”
—2 Timothy 3:16
Our fiction should show rather than merely tell those same truths.
And to do that well, we must steward both sides of the responsibility. We must learn good craft, and we must know the theology of Truth well enough to defend it and weave it honestly into fiction.
Your novel is not a gospel tract. It is a story—and if you write from a Christian worldview, the gospel ought to shape its characters, consequences, redemption, and hope long before anyone puts the plan of salvation into words.
Good theology does not excuse bad storytelling.
If anything, it gives us more reason to tell the story well.
Library of Congress, “1750 to 1899,” America Reads, accessed October 13, 2026. The Library of Congress describes Uncle Tom’s Cabin as “extremely influential in fueling antislavery sentiment” during the decade before the Civil War.
Daniel Silliman, “New Frontiers in 1961,” Christianity Today, November 21, 2025. Silliman describes the postwar paperback boom and notes the increasing availability of evangelical works in inexpensive paperback editions.
Bethany House Publishers, Spring 2016 Fiction Catalog (2016), 10. Bethany House credits Oke’s 1979 Love Comes Softly with helping launch the modern era of inspirational fiction.
Walter A. Elwell, “Belief and the Bible: A Crisis of Authority?,” Christianity Today, March 21, 1980. The Christianity Today–Gallup poll found that 49 percent of Protestant respondents could name only four or fewer of the Ten Commandments.
Kimberly Winston, “The Good News on Fiction,” Publishers Weekly, November 8, 1999. Winston reported that improving literary quality in evangelical fiction coincided with increased emphasis on story and character rather than treating proselytizing as the primary purpose of the novel.