A) A prophet is seldom welcome in his own stomping grounds.

B) The world conspires to steal what is yours.

C) Both or Other. I have been heard, now it’s your turn.

Until you’ve done it, you can only guess.

Those who’ve read the Circle Series thus far will likely say it’s not wise to start with Green. But then, they have never done that, so can’t really know.

It’s also a bit like the Star Wars Saga. Many debate whether it’s better to start with the ending of Star Wars movies, as they were released, or to start with Phantom Menace. Do you start at the beginning or at the end? For new viewers, most agree that it’s better to start with the end of Star Wars even though it spoils how the series ends.

Still, it’s up for debate. Just remember that if you’ve read Black, Red and White, you are debating what someone else will experience, not you. You are guessing that certain spoilers will create less of an impulse to discover or that they will ruin the experience of those discoveries.

This was at the forefront of my mind as I wrote. So, having finished the first draft, I gave the manuscript to a whole cast of readers who’d read the series and another whole cast who hadn’t read anything. We gave them all an extensive questionnaire and then poured over the responses.

The result was exactly as I had hoped. All who had read Black, Red and White thought Green made for a strong conclusion. Yet they weren’t sure it would make for a strong beginning. How could they know, being forever stamped by their own experience?

And all, to a person, who read Green without any prior knowledge of the series thought it made a perfect beginning and would immediately pick up Black. I quizzed them in great detail and made some small adjustments. Nowhere did they feel lost for lack of knowing, and instead were eager to learn more about the backstory alluded to throughout. All of those things you think of as spoilers, were story questions for the virgin reader. Indeed, many things you think are spoilers actually aren’t apparent UNLESS you’ve read the other books. Knowing the dot is on the wall, you see it every time you enter the room, even though others do not.

I gave all of this much thought as I crafted this most unusual novel. You really have to ask someone who reads the series starting with Green and ending with White how the experience was if you want to know.

Bottom line: Don’t assume that the KNOWLEDGE others acquire in Green will lessen rather than add to the EXPERIENCE of reading the other novels. Take a new reader’s word for it. That’s what I did, and that’s why I called Green Book Zero.

Now debate away. Leave a comment or join the conversation at Facebook.com/teddekker.

It has been said that words are one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind. In that they allow us to scratch the surface of an idea and to share that experience with a limited group of others… yes, words are invaluable. But without the incarnation of idea, words are hardly more than mathematical symbols. They are, in fact, rather blunt instruments that often get in the way of true magic. This basic linguistic understanding greatly informs my own storytelling.

IMO too many writers are confused about this fact, and they become slaves to the romantic notion that words have some innate power that supersedes ideas which can, like a crutch, weaken their own ideas and certainly their ability to share those ideas with a large audience, assuming that interests them.

Language. Growing up as a missionary kid on an island that had over 700 distinct languages and nearly as many linguists who’d committed their lives to understanding those languages and translating the Bible into them, I was introduced to the world of language and words very young.

There are roughly 6,000 spoken languages in the world today. Of those, roughly 28% have fewer than 1,000 speakers. Not taking into consideration duplication or dialects, let’s then say that there are roughly 6,000 words for what we call a “Pig” in the world today. Three of these are, Pig (English,) Wam (Dani,) and Babi (Indonesian.) The word Wam, which means pig to only a few thousand people in the world, is nothing but nonsense to the rest of the world. Garbage. Only when both the speaker and the hearer connect to that word an idea (in this case a four-legged creature with a specific set of defining characteristics) does the word have any great value.

Words are of little value unless they effectively synthesize an idea. Now, the idea of a pig, this wonderful four-legged beast treasured in the east and slaughtered in the west, is universally magical. But the word itself, Wam or Babi or Pig, is only magical in that it, like a tag or a number, identifies the idea behind that word.

As storytellers, we must be slaves to bringing ideas and story to life in the imagination of others. Words can be either magnificent tools in helping us achieve this end, or blunt obstacles to that same end. Either way, we must remember that they are only that. Conduits for the exchange of ideas. The wiring that allows for transference, like in a computer processor, hence the comparison of language and mathematics.

Naturally it’s tough to separate words from the ideas they represent in any given language, so yes, you could make the argument that words are as magical as the idea’s they represent, but only if they work as advertised which has as much to do with the reader as with the writer because the words by themselves are weak, dormant, useless. Certainly not magical.

So what does this mean to us as writers? If your stories are awakening magic in the hearts and minds of many that speak your language, your words are probably not getting in the way of that magical story. You’re hitting enough right switches and sending enough right signals to ignite within others the idea that has been awakened in your own mind. The light has gone on in the reader’s mind and they are thrilled by the magic. The “wiring” in your novel—no matter how crude or twisted or odd or interesting other writers might think of it—has illuminated many lights, perhaps many more than their own fine wiring. Bravo.

If, however, your stories are awakening magic in the hearts and minds of only a few in same said language, your words might very well be getting in the way for most. Not necessarily a bad thing, by the way, but not effective if one of your hopes is to share said story with many as opposed to the few who get your fine wiring.

The geeks care about the innards of that iMac, but most only care about what’s on the screen. The idea. A good writer is one who can take those rather blunt instruments called words and string them together in a way that turns lights on.

So, is Stephanie Meyer a good writer? Clearly her words aren’t getting in the way of her ideas. She’s ignited them in the imaginations of many quite effectively. Regardless of how you might judge those ideas, the transference of them through this medium called words is clearly good. From a linguist’s perspective, you would be hard pressed not to call that an excellent use of words. The wiring works well. Her use of writing is good. Even excellent.

Another case and point: Which is the better metaphorical use of words to describe Jesus in John 1:29, Lamb of God or Piglet of Allah? Both are metaphors, both are fiction, both are true, neither was written or spoken by John himself (he didn’t speak English or Dani.)

The linguists where I grew up used the latter metaphor because these words best translated the verse’s true meaning among a group that had never seen a lamb. Instead they carried around their treasured piglets as a shepherd might carry around a lamb.

When transference of a story is the writer’s objective, the best writing is that which best illuminates the magic of that story in the reader’s mind.

Go find a magical idea. Use words to pass it on to others. This is a beautiful thing.

Are you writer? Agree or disagree, comment below. Be heard.

But really, let’s be honest, we are surprised only because we tend to forget just how powerful our own redemptive history is.

The dancers eloquently wove a tale of the Great Romance and Teeleh’s seduction of the maiden; of Justin’s wooing and of drowning in red waters all culminating in a wedding right there on stage. It was stunning, beautiful.

The story tellers made us laugh with their antics and wowed us with the opening to Green. I acted out my own story, ‘The Birth of a Storyteller,’ or ‘Ted’s Schizophrenic Meltdown’ whichever you prefer. Mike Hyatt opened our eyes to the power of story. More, much more. It was all a bit daunting.

But what really made the day magical was the story behind each of these dramatic elements. The irresistible connection we each have with our Creator. The tale of rescue that has captivated each of us and which we are now retelling a hundred different ways.

This is what makes the Gathering magical. This is why so many would spend hundreds to come for a one day event. This reconnection to an intoxicating story that determines the fate of our very souls. The media was there, they were blown away, but why should they be? God’s story is mind boggling!

Me? I’m just there to lead others through it. To participate in the story with everyone else. I am not the story, only the storyteller. The Gathering is about you, your story, your Creator’s story, and experiencing that story is priceless.

If I’m being too bold, forgive me, but I would say that the Gathering was a stunning event that tens of thousands would clamber to experience and one day they may have that opportunity. But it is only so because of you. Because of those who came. Readers who get it. Who love it. Who are as strange as me and love their own strangeness because it is a unique expression of God’s love. Together we really are breaking new ground, forming a new kind of dramatic experience, but it is based on the oldest of all stories and because of this we have an unfair advantage!

Thank you so much for coming. For sharing this experience with me. I was deeply touched.

If you were there, I would for you to post a few short words about what this Gathering meant to you or your family. Post your experience below, and let our community know what you thought.

Dive Deep.

Regardless of what we think any particular word should mean, it actually means what society interprets it to mean. Linguistics 101. Like the word gay. I’ve been quoted as saying that I could have once properly been branded the gay author because, although I have always been heterosexual, I once was… well, gay. Twenty years ago the word meant happy. Today it refers to sexual orientation. So although I was once gay, I am no longer gay, not because I’ve changed, but because the understanding of the word in society has changed and it no longer describes what I am.

So it is with the word ‘Christian.’

Jesus summed up his message as follows: Love the Lord your God with all your heart and love your neighbor as yourself. Armed with this simple mandate of love, millions of his followers have forsaken the relative safety and affluence of a comfortable life to extend love and hope to the downtrodden over the centuries. Much could be said to explain how and why Christianity has embodied compassion in a world torn by war, terror, and heartache. It’s all about love, my friend. They may hate you for your love because to the guilty love sometimes feels like salt in a wound, but they will still know that you are Christian by your love.

Unfortunately, in the eyes of many, Christianity is now far better known for much more and much less than love. Not all of the associations are bad, mind you, but they are a far cry from the message of love that ultimately cost Jesus his life. Ask any pedestrian and, depending on where they live, they will tell you who Christians are.

Ask the question in the Middle East and you might be told that Christians are killers whose bombs have killed thousands of innocent bystanders in Iraq; murderers who have brutally killed thousands of Muslims in Lebanon. Christian militia entered the Shatila refugee camp in Beirut in September 1982 where they raped, pillaged and murdered with impunity for three days during what became known as the Shatila massacre. The first suicide bomber in Lebanon was a Christian, blowing up Muslims. The scourge of the Crusaders is still alive in the Middle East. This is what ‘Christian’ means to many in that part of the world.

My father just returned from a town in India where Hindus have killed many Christians over the last 12 months. When he asked the pastors if it was because Christians followed Jesus, they surprised him by say no, it was because Christians means ‘Western values’ to the Hindus. “So then,” my father said, “if you are dying for a term that doesn’t describe you, are you not dying in vain? If Christian means western to them, not follower of Christ, then to call yourself Christian to them is deceitful, is it not? To the Romans, become Roman, the apostle Paul says. Speak their language.”

If you ask a pedestrian in Seattle who Christians are, they will likely tell you that Christians are judgmental, insensitive, hypocrites who are out of touch with reality. Or worse, angry right-wing bigots willing to resort to hate speech and violence to protect their narrow way of life. That they are a political group committed to a particular platform, willing to take up the sword or home-made bombs to enforce that platform.

The last thing that will come to their mind is the concept of sacrificial love or Jesus who showed us that love. Just like the word ‘Gay’ the meaning has changed, like it or not.
And it’s not just Lebanon or Seattle. According to a Barna Group poll, only 9% of those outside the church think Christians in America are nice, loving people. What every happened to you shall know them by their love? Throughout most of the world Christianity is simply no longer associated with the core beliefs of sacrificial love that birthed our faith. It has become like a large vessel of dirty bathwater, full of nasty associations and improper human behavior. Newsweek’s April 7th cover story cited the dramatic decline of Christianity in the United States. We live in a post Christian world, many would say. They might be right. And who’s to blame them? No one wants to swim around in dirty bathwater.

But wait a minute. There is more than dirty bathwater in this vessel. There is something precious and live-giving! And there is a rising generation of thinkers who are as eager to protect and cherish that life as they are to throw out the dirty bathwater.

Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater, we say.

It’s interesting that Jesus’ first recorded miracle was turning dirty bathwater (in this case water used to wash dusty feet) into precious wine, a beautiful portrayal of purification. My generation wants that wine back and many are willing—check that, eager—to rid the vessel of the bathwater and replace it with that wine, that truth, that core message of love that Jesus gave his life for.

If Christian means judgmental or bigot to most or even many, than to them we are not Christian. We are neither bigots nor hate-mongers nor killers nor whatever else you might think a Christian might be, we are passionate believers in a person who came with a message of love, and his name was Jesus. Our identity is not stamped with any specific political party or ideology however good or bad it is, but to the man who avoided being identified by any political ideology whenever possible and offered only the sage advice to give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.

We are not defined by any specific social agenda, however necessary or good, but by the love that embraces the downcast in need of a helping hand. We do not follow any moral creed invented by man however honorable, nor spit in the faces of those who struggle to put others before themselves however deserving, but we carry the burden of forgiveness and step aside so that he without sin may throw the first stone, if indeed such a man lives.

Our stories are not about pot-lucks and Sunday school playground squabbles, but about that monster called hate and his futile attempts to dash the hopes of the Great Lover. Perhaps you could call us post-Christian Believers, defined solely by the man we follow, not the institution that bears his name.

We believe that our first calling is to love God with all of our hearts and that our second calling is to love our neighbor as we love ourselves, and for us that is a difficult enough task to waste the rest of our lives on.

We are not partial Christians, not red-letter Christians, not a new kind of Christian, not non-Christian; we are far more and far less than Christian, children of an unfortunate but very real phenomenon that has dirtied our bathwater so now we want out, but out with the baby, please. The baby the whole baby, nothing but the baby, so help us God.

We are many, very many, millions of many. This is the way we roll and we are on the rise.

Does this describe you? Speak here, let your voice be heard. Then visit the poll on the home page.

The release of BoneMan’s Daughters is upon us. The one question I am asked at nearly every interview is, “What inspired you to write this novel?” My answer is nearly always the same, I write to explore.

But BoneMan’s Daughters has a unique story behind it: The unnerving story of my own daughter.

Now, I would like to think that I am a good father. That I have raised each of my children in the way they should go, and given them freedom to make their own choices once they have enough of a sense of the world not to be crushed. But when my daughter began to fall for this one particular creep at the tender age of sixteen, I began to sweat.

No one else saw him as a creep, mind you. He was the kid at her birthday party who could break-dance and smile ever so charmingly. He seemed kind and thoughtful and all of the girls thought he was, for lack of a better word, hot.

I don’t know, maybe it was the way he kept looking at me with piercing eyes, or the way he yelled at me when I asked him not to date my daughter (go figure) but this kid scared me.

Fast forward two years. It was three days before Christmas. I’d learned that my daughter, now eighteen and in college, was madly in love with this boy. By this point I was certain that the kid was not only a punk, but truly dangerous. He’d yelled at me on numerous occasions. He’d told me I had no right to my daughter. He’d threatened my family.

But most of all, this kid, now twenty, had won the heart of my daughter and for that I began to hate him. My anger was directed at him, not my daughter, you see, because he was the monster and she was my precious baby and the fact that he’d found a way to seduce her was infuriating.

And that night… that night three days before Christmas, everything came apart, because that night my daughter informed the family that she was leaving our home to live with this monster. There are six of us in the family; five of us stood there at the door, crying, while the monster led the sixth out the front door. I can still see his face—he was carrying her suitcase and he was smiling.

But what could I do? My wife and I, and the other children had all begged her not to go with him. But, like a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, she had given her heart and mind to the monster, unable to see his fangs.

LeeAnn and I tried to comfort our other children. Our youngest, only a small child at the time, was devastated and we couldn’t stop her weeping. For hours she cried and hiccupped and all we could do was hold back our own tears for her sake while we held her.

Then, like the twin dead, we walked to our own room, closed the door, fell on our bed, and sobbed. And we sobbed.

For the next two months our bedroom was the weeping place. The monster had our child and there was nothing I could do about it. I talked to the police, I called all of our friends, I dialed the FBI, and I would have called the President if I thought it might help. I begged our daughter to reconsider every time I talked to her, but it was her life and I could only pray that she came to herself before he destroyed her.

It stuck me then that I would do anything to save my daughter. Anything. And every time I thought about the monster my outrage at his seduction grew. In my mind he was BoneMan. My daughter was now BoneMan’s Daughter!

In the end all I could do was stare at my blank computer screen for hours, lost in desperation. I knew then that I had to discover the meaning behind this terrible love I had for my daughter through a fully fleshed story. I had to write a story that made absolute certain in the mind of every daughter how precious they are to the father.

My pain was intensely personal and I needed to understand that pain in the context of every father who loses a daughter, be it in Iraq or in Hollywood or in Colorado. Even more I had to grasp that same pain in the context of my own Father’s love for me. Is this how God loves each of his children?

I still remember the day the call came. It was my daughter. She was crying so hard she could hardly get the words out. She wanted to come, oh how badly she wanted to come home, she’d wanted to come home for weeks, could we please, please take her back? Heaven filled our home that day.

And then we learned the terrible truth. The monster had abused her. That devil had crushed her! She was too ashamed to call, too proud to come home, but she’d laid awake in bed many nights crying for home.

Four years have passed and now, two months before the day Rachelle is to marry a man we love, she will tell you that she was snatched out of hell itself that day. I cringe to think what might have happened. And I cringe to think what goes through the mind of a father who has lost his daughter forever.

Not since writing When Heaven Weeps following the death of my brother many years ago have I written such a personal story as BoneMan’s Daughters. I’ve dedicated it to Rachelle, but this love story is for you. For every daughter, every son, every father, every mother.

Read the novel. Then go to your daughter, your father, your son, your mother, hold them close, and cherish them forever.

*P.S. Read the latest poll on the home page and leave your comments. This one’s for all of us.

P.P.S. You can hear Ted tell this story during his interview on the Laura Ingraham Show. Click HERE to listen to it now.

I was on the phone with a ranking member of the establishment recently, a gatekeeper for a major retailer in CBA who was giving me his lowdown on BoneMan’s Daughters.

“Deeply moving,” he said. “The best from you in years in my opinion. I couldn’t put it down.”

I chuckled. “You liked it, huh?”

“I did, I really did…” There was a pause. “But it’s definitely not for everyone.”

My smile vanished. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, the intensity. It’s…” He chuckled. “The violence is going to raise some eyebrows. I’m sure I’ll have my share of Naysayers around here.”

“But did you get it?’

“Oh, I got it. Beautiful. It’s a love story, isn’t it? A beautiful love story. But… well, not everyone will see it that way.”

“But you got it, right?” I asked looking for approval. “How could anyone NOT get it?”

“Well, they will. They just might not approve.”

I had to ask myself afterward why this approval was so important to me. I mean, no novel of mine has been as well received before publication as BoneMan’s Daughters. Some are bound to trash it, sure, on the grounds that it is written by a so called “religious” writer and everyone in New York knows that all religious writers are hacks of the highest order. The old guard there still scratches its collective head when they hear of the enormous success of certain projects—case and point, The Passion of the Christ.

Yet, while New York’s opinion is important to me, nothing hits as close to home as the opinion of those who should know what makes story so powerful. I should ignore both, I know, I know. I should have a skin thicker than an elephant’s by this point in my career. But I do care, and in particular I care what CBA thinks. It’s in my blood. I need to know that readers, particularly readers who should know better, understand what it is the story is saying, which in my opinion, can only be said using the kind of veracity often missing from stories today.

Keep in mind that this is being written by me, a guy whose parents left the relative safety of an American Church and took me into an extremely dark and brutal jungle where cannibals killed missionaries; death was on all sides. Why would they subject me to such horror? For the hope and light they would bring into that dark, violent world. Too many of us are afraid to do the same and our fear shows in our stories. Perhaps it begins with them, after all, stories shape culture, the sub culture called “Church” being no exception,

So here it is, in black and white…

My response to those who I can already hear crying foul when they read BoneMan’s Daughters and uncover a somewhat brutal treatment of the Father’s heart for his children.

Let me be clear, BMD is violent in parts. Readers will find themselves in one of three categories.

One. A minority, perhaps 5% will be deeply disturbed by the book. A few will throw the book across the room as they have previous novels of mine, When Heaven Weeps, my most violent novel to date being a prime example. One or two may even march back into their trusted source for books and demand it be taken off the shelves. I was saved from ugly thoughts, you will say. The last thing I want to do is allow anything that is less than holy in my head.

To those who fall in this category let me suggest you not read this or any of my novels. There are plenty of other novels to pick up and neither I nor those who understand my writing are looking for a battle from our own kind. You might want to also avoid large portions of holy scripture while you’re at it. They too are deeply disturbing and full of ugly thoughts.

Two. A significant number, perhaps 65%, will read BMD and wonder where the offense lies. None of my books have bothered you much and you will cruise through this one without stumbling over any passages. The story will hopefully impact you as intended, but you won’t be joining any campaigns to burn Ted’s books.

Three. The remaining 30% (and yes, these numbers are scientific) will read BoneMan’s Daughters and be disturbed, as you should be, and you will be moved as was the Gate Keeper at the top of the blog, and you will wonder what you should do with all the feelings this book evokes. This blog is primarily for you.

Let me suggest that you are meant to feel bothered, not as much by the violence but by the fact that you are so disturbed by the violence. When all is said and done, as you know and as BMD so clearly points out, perfect love casts out fear. The goodness and wholeness that we find in our own salvation takes the sting out of death, does it not? Rather than skip over it, we can walk right through the valley of death and fear no evil.

Or is that just a cute saying that makes for nice rhyming lyrics in a Sunday school song?

The fact is, most gate keepers in the CBA applaud story that depicts uncompromising truth in stories which rip the façade off of the wolf in sheep’s clothing, showing that wolf for what it is in all of its ugliness; stories which then soundly defeat said wolf with a passion that equals the greatest of all passions, that is the passion of the Christ.

As it turns out, many in our culture have a profound fear of death, and the violence which leads to that death. Without a hope which extends beyond this life they go to great lengths to protect flesh in all of its glory. Anything that threatens a comfortable life is deemed evil; prosperity of flesh is exalted over prosperity of spirit.

Fear of death and violence is part of the human condition and it has reached as deeply into the religious establishment as into a world that claims no faith beyond what it can touch and feel. In short, it is a needless sickness that many have turned into a badge of honor.

You know you have this sickness when you see a leper or a person in terrible suffering, and back away for fear of catching their suffering. You find it difficult to fellowship in the suffering of the saints or the victims of violence, preferring to turn your head away.

You know you have this sickness when you refuse to bare the wolf for all to see, or trek into the valley of death to rescue those stranded there, or dine with deviants and prostitutes.

You know you have the sickness when you forget that the defeat of evil is a good thing and therefore something that we ought to think about. Stories which chronicle the defeat of evil in the valley of death are also good things.

So my advice to you who feel the sting of death and cringe is this: You are not alone, neither is your fear. It hurts to have your heel crushed, it really does. But fear not. Remember that in life, as in BoneMan’s Daughters, all that is ugly and violent will crush your heel (yes indeed will crush your heel) but you, empowered by an Ultimate love, will crush its head.

Whatever you do, don’t turn away from those who suffer and don’t hide from the serpent who causes that suffering. Take up the hammer and crush him.

The loss of a job. Graduation. A parent who’s scrambling to make ends meet. A breakup. A particularly large zit that has insisted on perching itself on the end of your nose just when you’d cleared up. In their own ways, every new challenge is a kind of monster, waiting to be conquered or courted, depending on the circumstances.

I face several such challenges at this point in my life.

First, there’s the website redesign which, after being nearly completed by one party in November was entirely scrapped because it just wasn’t doing the trick, know what I mean? Ouch. But we look to have take-two up mid to late March and we’re looking forward to courting this monster and winning him as a friend.

Second, there’s my first co-authored novel with a woman with the current release of KISS. It’s a twisting story that harkens back to the “old Ted” only this time with Erin Healy. Jennifer Deshler, the marketing guru at the publisher came up with the marketing tag “Heart Pounding meets Heart Warming” and I think that about sums it up. Typically I write my stories with my alter-ego sitting on my shoulder. Samantha, perhaps you know her. Perhaps that’s why working with Erin who also is a woman came so naturally to me. Early reviews are very strong.

Still, what will all the peeps say?

Thirdly, there’s the release of my first truly “mainstream” novel, BONEMAN’S DAUGHTER. Yes, the novel plumbs spiritual themes about God’s intense love in contrast to the love offered by a very, very wicked killer called BONEMAN, but it’s not specifically labeled as being a story solely for Christians any more than Jesus’ parables were labeled as such.

Says James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Oracle: “Ted Dekker’s latest thriller BONEMAN’S DAUGHTERS is a tour-de-force of suspense that demands to be read in one sitting. A twisting story…  made all the more visceral for its taut telling and conflicted characters. ”

Says Brad Meltzer, New York Times bestselling author of The Book of Lies: “BONEMAN’S DAUGHTERS doesn’t just get under your skin. It crawls there, and nests, and raises its head with a bitter tug, like it’s living within you.”

This novel seems to have struck  a unique chord that I’ve sought to strike for years. And where’s the monster in this you ask? Yes, well this brings me to my whole point about being gay. And being Christian. Now please, hang with me here. My reasoning may stretch you, but you wouldn’t be reading anything written by me if you didn’t like to be stretched now and then.

You see, I used to be “gay.” In fact, if I had been published twenty years ago at the height of my gayness, I might have been branded “The Gay Author.”

Then things changed. I didn’t change, my happy self remained constant, as did all of what made me merry and carefree and thus I remained quite… well, gay. But the word “gay” itself began to change until one day it no longer meant happy, but rather “homosexual.” And once being gay, which only meant “happy,” I was no longer gay because I am now and always have been happily heterosexual.

No matter how much anyone might want the term gay to mean what it once did, it’s the hearer of a word, as much as the speaker, who determines any terms real meaning. That’s how words and communication works.

So the real challenge of being gay today is that I’m not. Although I was at one time and still am quite happy and carefree.

Now, back to BoneMan’s Daughter and, more specifically, whether BoneMan’s Daughters is a piece of Evangelical Christian Fiction. Like the word gay, the term “Evangelical Christian Fiction” has changed over the last twenty years. For starters the term “Evangelical” is fast becoming a measure of ones fanaticism and dedication to particular political and social agendas rather than a term that denotes doctrinal convictions or affiliations. The term “Christian” is close on its heels.  Put together the meaning of phrase “Evangelical Christian” means one thing in Atlanta, and another thing entirely in New York or Boston. In one city it means protestant, in another it means bigoted, politically motivated, fundamentalist who hates liberals and is willing to take up arms to prove it. Or something like that.

If that is what is understood by “Evangelical Christian” than I have never written “Evangelical Christian” novels, and I should certainly never be counted as a bigoted, politically motivated, fundamentalist who hates liberals, particularly if I have any intention of following the teachings of Jesus. In fact, an argument could me made that in many places “Evangelical Christian” is decidedly un-Christian. Please take no offense, both are just words that became associated with Christ long after his time on earth.

I myself am a believer, unshaken in my convictions, and every novel I write grapples with those very same convictions. Still, BoneMan’s Daughters is my first which sheds the label “Evangelical Christian Fiction” in part because the term is radically misunderstood by half the country. Will Christian bookstores like Family, LifeWay and Parable still promote a book of mine like BoneMan’s Daughters which contains no offensive language or sex and explores God’s sacrificial love? Of course. It’s hardly different than Thr3e (which CBA stores voted fiction title of the year in 2003) or a number of other novels I’ve written in this respect. CBA stores carry many products and books not specifically labeled as “Evangelical,” beginning with the Bible itself.

Will my current readers buy BoneMan’s Daughter? If they like my thrillers, yes, it’s a humdinger and will challenge any reader’s understanding of God’s love.

But the issue of labeling a book surfaces a deeper one facing our culture today. Are our books decidedly Evangelical Christian? For that matter, are we? Are you? Or has the term’s meaning changed over time, like the word Gay?

If the term “Evangelical Christian” no longer properly describes a follower of Jesus to a growing segment of our society, should you, knowing this, use it?

Or, should you use the term only among those who understand what you mean by it, and use a different term among those who don’t know what you mean? I know it sounds like I’m begging the question, but I really do want you to help me form an opinion. This is an issue that is facing us all, including our good friends in CBA bookstores.

Tell me what you think by clicking on comments below, then go to the home page of Teddekker.com and vote on the poll. And thank you for carefully considering a difficult question.