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In a run-down part of Fort Worth's Hospital District, a handful of men in torn pants and stained t-shirts hang out near the door of a convenience store. One man politely asks for spare change as patrons enter and exit and tells them to have "a blessed day," regardless of whether they give him money.

The area looks like the setting of a modern-day Dickens novel, its general shabby air shared by buildings and people. Some of the men who walk or wander along the street have their shirts slung over their shoulders, in an attempt to stay a little cooler in the sweltering August sun. But in the landscape of windowless, boxy buildings, a stunning Gothic beacon of brick and glass soars over its gritty surroundings.

Inside Broadway Baptist Church, biblical scenes are portrayed in vibrant stained-glass windows. Rows of light fixtures with crosses hang from the high ceilings over the pews, and massive organ pipes shoot up the arched walls like metal veins. On a recent Sunday, the blue-robed choir belted out powerful hymns, accompanied by piano, as the congregation stood and sang along. The youthful-looking, dark-haired pastor, Dr. Brent Beasley, delivered a sermon entitled "The Depths" and spoke of how people fall into despair and need to call out for God and the community to help deliver them.

"You read in the Bible story after story about people falling into a pit and getting up again," he said in a strong, deliberate baritone. "Each of us has a story, and all of our stories involve spending some time in the depths. One of the special appointments we have as a church is to be a safe place for people who find themselves in the depths and cry out honestly."

Beasley's message of hope in the midst of despair surely resonated with his flock. Over the past two years, the congregation has found itself the center of a national controversy involving the Southern Baptist Convention, the Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, and Baptists all around the country. Inside Broadway's broad doors, petitions, factional fighting, and external pressures produced a palpable air of tension.

The question at the heart of the turmoil was the role of homosexuals in the Baptist church. Officially, Baptists do not affirm, approve, or endorse homosexual behavior, according to the vague language of the convention's bylaws. Broadway, according to various people interviewed for this story, is the dictionary definition of a moderate Baptist church - the congregation and its leaders don't do any of those verboten "affirming" things regarding homosexuality. But the church does allow openly gay people to be members and, in rare cases, to hold leadership positions. So it surprised many in the flock when the SBC severed its 127-year ties with the church last February.

The trouble had started over a year earlier, when a few of the congregation's more conservative members decided that then-Pastor Brent Younger was too liberal and too gay-friendly. Then came the decision to include pictures of two same-sex couples in the church directory. That move eventually split the church into three groups: the more conservative elements, who wanted Younger gone so bad that some were even willing to pay him extra to leave; the more liberal people, who accept the gay members of their church, even if not affirming their sexuality; and those in the middle who just wanted to sweep it all under the rug.

There are Baptists inside and outside Broadway who believe that the SBC violated its own bylaws by disassociating with Broadway. But many Broadway members are also happy that their church is no longer associated with the SBC, an organization they see as increasingly conservative and borderline extremist in its social views. Most of those who were the unhappiest with Younger and with Broadway's direction left to join more conservative churches. And Broadway lost other members who, because they are full-time faculty at the Southwestern Seminary, are required to belong to SBC-affiliated churches. On the other side of the pew, the church has lost members in the past because it declined to extend a warmer welcome to gays.

The firestorm even affected the church's youth choir. Last June, the choir's planned mission trip to Kentucky had to be re-routed because a church-affiliated college in Kentucky un-invited the group, due to Broadway's acceptance of gays and lesbians.

Scott Green is one of the few openly gay members of Broadway, though he and his partner were not among those who wanted their picture in the directory as a couple. He, like almost all of the Broadway members interviewed for this story, emphasized that the congregation is ready to put the events of the past couple of years behind them.

This isn't the first time Broadway has hewed to its own course when others were going in different directions. In true Baptist spirit, in fact, the church was born in a split from another local congregation - in a fight over perceived sin of a very different kind.

The history of Broadway Baptist is closely linked with that of Fort Worth. In 1873, the city's First Baptist Church had a modest 27-member congregation and met in a building about a half-mile from the infamous Hell's Half Acre, where gambling and prostitution were rampant. A few church members wanted First Baptist to more aggressively pursue the salvation of the area's sinners. When they couldn't convince the others, those members joined with a group that split off from First Baptist in 1882 to found the church that would eventually be renamed Broadway Baptist. Some see it as ironic that the church that was started to fight sin more aggressively now finds itself in trouble for not doing enough to fight sexual "sin" of a very different sort. Others, however, see it as just the first step on Broadway's path of independent decisions.

Broadway has a history of being ahead of its time on social-justice issues. Representatives of three women's societies met at Broadway in 1896 to form the Women's Associational Union Auxiliary to the Tarrant County Baptist Association. The church has long enjoyed a reputation for allowing women to take leadership roles and says in its mission statement that it ordains women.

The church was also instrumental in bringing the Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary to Fort Worth, following a campaign in 1907. Several other churches in the city owe their existence to help from Broadway and its members. By 1943, it was one of the largest congregations in the Baptist General Convention of Texas, the ninth-largest both in the size of its flock and in per-capita contributions to the collection plate.

In the late 1940s, when most churches were fleeing the inner city for the suburbs, Broadway's congregation made a conscious decision to stick it out in an urban setting, so as to be closer to those in need.

Charity and missionary work have long been the hallmark of the historic church, which is home to a dozen local ministries, including the Agape Meal that feeds more than 200 people every Thursday night, clothing drives for adults and children, a social ministry for people who are learning English, a free food pantry, an emergency shelter program for homeless people during inclement weather, an adopt-a-school program, and free sack lunches for the homeless. They also offer a mentoring program for families trying to get off welfare. The Lena Pope Home, founded by one of the church's Sunday school teachers, is another of Broadway's enduring legacies to the city.

Broadway doesn't require poor people to listen to a sermon before they get a sack lunch or new shirt. And, at least in recent years, they've never asked anyone to declare his or her sexual politics before joining the congregation. The congregation is active in AIDS outreach and has several openly gay members, but isn't exactly entering a float in any gay pride parades. They have stuck resolutely to what used to be the middle of the road, despite criticism from those in the outer lanes on either side.