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The Jacksons got their own taste of reality soon enough. While on a kindergarten outing, their son A. J. looked out of a bus window. "There's my church!" he said innocently. The little girl next to him replied, "My daddy says that those places that have a cross on them—they lie." (The LDS theology of Jesus tends not to emphasize the cross.)

A. J. was crushed. Worse than just a slam of his church, this was a criticism of his daddy. Marlys Jackson was understandably incensed: "She was ready to go out and nuke about a third of Provo," her husband says with a smile. "But we talked about it, and I said, 'You know, is it possible that not every Mormon feels that way? Any group has its bigots—the Assemblies of God as well as the LDS church.' Gradually I got us all to calm down."

Still, it was hard not to become paranoid. The Mormon presence seemed as immense as the Wasatch Mountain Range that loomed on the eastern edge of town, blocking out the sunrise. Jackson sensed himself struggling from week to week. What could he really hope to accomplish here?

Then, about six months into his pastorate, as he cried out to God in prayer one evening, he was jarred by a poignant thought:

Dean, your problem here is that you're basically trying to 'reach the dirty Mormons,' aren't you?

Jackson, stunned, had to nod his head in agreement. He did not really love LDS people; he saw them only as cultists to be converted.

From that point on, the 28-year-old pastor began to soften his heart and listen more carefully. He got involved at the Chamber of Commerce, eventually being elected to the board. He joined the Rotary Club. In time he was invited to offer invocations at public events. "What I found were a lot of incredibly sincere people who just wanted Provo to be the best place to live in America. They wanted a safe, even 'Judeo-Christian' community in which to raise their kids, and they'd network with anybody who wanted to further that cause."

Rock Canyon's members watched their pastor's networking with detachment. A few business owners supported Jackson, but others worried that he was compromising. More than one person reminded him that "light doesn't mingle with darkness." Having grown up with Sunday-school teachers who didn't mind warming up their classes with a Mormon joke or two, they weren't eager for a lovefest.

Nevertheless, Jackson kept making friends and opening doors. With the help of Ron Clark, BYU's director of public affairs, the church's music team made a CD, Hymns We Share, using common songs from the LDS hymnal but done in the distinct Rock Canyon style. Selections ranged from "How Great Thou Art" to the rollicking camp-meeting tune "He Set Me Free." Listeners around town told Jackson that the CD was a big hit with teenagers—especially on Sundays, when only sacred music is allowed in Mormon homes.

Jackson had figured out how to build his own relationships across Provo's Protestant-Mormon chasm, but he sensed God telling him to bring his church into the effort. He decided to broach the subject at a church board meeting in early 1998.

"As I think about our position here in the midst of the LDS community, I'm concerned about some things," Jackson told his board members. "My theology as an Assemblies of God minister is the same as it's always been; I'm probably the most conservative preacher in town! But when I think about our attitudes and actions, it seems to me that maybe we haven't always been Christlike. I want us to consider the need for repentance. And perhaps we even need to communicate that repentance to the Mormon church in some way."

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February 7 2000, Vol. 44, No. 2