Why Is Most "Christian" Fiction Utter Dreck?

I recently read a relatively new book by a star of the Christian publishing firmament: Showdown by Ted Dekker. I can honestly say that I read it with an open mind - open, that is, in terms of being willing to appreciate and enjoy the writing.

However, the book is rather bad.

Mr. Dekker should receive some kind of anti-award for foisting an appallingly dreadful book on the reading public. I won't go into the specifics because I'm simply not interested in mining my memory to that degree and, to be honest, Dekker's book does not deserve that sort of in-depth analysis. To be succinct, the plot is tedious and unbelievable, the characters do not develop, and his use of words is uninspired. Furthermore, the story as dreary parable is exceedingly heavy-handed and beats the reader over the head with carefully infused meaning. To place this in metaphor, reading Showdown is the literary equivalent (what's the word for writing that is non-literary?) of having a woodchuck munch on your ankles due to thinking them willow saplings while listening to the Chinese national anthem performed by a trio of tone-deaf tenors. Well, probably not that interesting but certainly just as painful. Another apt metaphor would be that the book is the sensory equivalent of a three-day-old bagel.

The experience of having suffered through this book brings me to my question: Why is most "christian" fiction utter dreck? The attendant questions must then be: Are those who read and enjoy such fiction mentally impaired? Are the fiction editors of publishing houses such as Westbow, Thomas Nelson, Tyndale, etc., mentally non-existent? Where and how was their taste formed? Is my reaction largely due to the jealousy of an unpublished writer?

Let's explore the potential answers another time.