In reality, however, Holy Cross (which broke ground for a building on Sept. 19) was born in pain and recrimination. Last January, Beach, then the beloved pastor at St. Alban's Episcopal Church in nearby Monroe, Ga., shocked the members of his congregation by telling them that after 12 years as their spiritual leader, he was leaving not only them but also their denomination, the Episcopal Church U.S.A. Weeping, he explained that the church's attitude toward gays, which he termed its "immoral crisis," had led him to "the conclusion that I can no longer serve the Lord as an Episcopal priest." Instead, he would begin two new alliances: one with Frank Lyons, the conservative Anglican Bishop of Bolivia, enabling Beach to end-run the Episcopal American hierarchy in favor of its parent Anglicanism; and the other as pastor of a brand-new church — largely financed, it was later announced, by businessman Clyde Strickland, who would donate $100,000 and 10 acres worth $770,000. This new life, Beach told his stunned listeners, would commence in less than a month. "Some of you will feel called to join me" and some not, he said. "Regardless, please know that you have my utmost respect and love."

No two breakups are alike, and Beach's split with St. Alban's has its singular aspects. (There was no squabble over common assets, for one thing.) But it may also be predictive. In electing the Rev. V. Gene Robinson, an actively gay man, as a bishop in 2003, the Episcopal Church U.S.A. placed itself at the excruciating center of American mainline Christianity's struggles over homosexuality and at odds with much of the international Anglican Communion to which it belongs. In mid-October the communion will publish a task-force report expected to address the effect of Robinson's election on the American church's Anglican status; a task-force news release promised "radical changes." Conservatives hope that at a minimum, the findings will act as a lever to force the establishment of some sort of alternative U.S. hierarchy for traditionalists. If not, they warn, there will be thousands of defections like Beach's. Thus far, the Anglican Communion Network, a kind of conservative hierarchy in waiting, claims affiliation with more than 500 Episcopal parishes. (An Episcopal spokesman says the number is lower.)

Until this year, few would have picked St. Alban's as a model for schism. Arriving in 1992, Beach transformed an aging, liturgically conservative, 35-member congregation by initiating community-outreach programs and a livelier second Sunday service. Before long, the place was hopping. Attendance topped 200, and grateful Albanites invested in a $1.6 million parish hall and a $100,000 pastor's office. They knew Beach strongly opposed the Robinson elevation — he had conducted "burial rites" for Episcopalianism at the time — but most of them agreed with him and were willing to battle beside him for a denominational reversal.

Then came Beach's announcement. Many were thrilled. More than 100 people immediately joined him at Holy Cross. Others were perplexed or heartbroken. "We're traditional people," says St. Alban's charter member Sue Henson. "We're not for Gene Robinson's election, but differences can only be worked out if you stay." Marian Sweeney is peeved that Beach gave so little notice. "You don't make a move like that in a week," she alleges. "He had been accepted by the Bishop of Bolivia before he announced he was leaving. He kept us in a holding pattern, saying Be patient and pray. And then he left. We felt deceived."

Hearing such allegations, Beach tears up all over again. His incompatibility with his old job, he says, crystallized for him after a difficult early December meeting with his boss, J. Neil Alexander, the Episcopal bishop in Atlanta. "It hit me like a slap in the face. If I stayed, I'd lose my soul," he says. He claims that aspects of his new situation weren't finalized until just before or just after his announcement. In any case, he didn't want to share preliminary planning with his flock because "it would be manipulative. I could have roused 90% of the church to walk out," he says. "Where the betrayal may come in [is that] I told people that I wouldn't start another church." Days later, Beach denies promising he wouldn't start a new church, but he does not retract another admission: "What any rector wants to leave behind is a thriving congregation. I've left behind a broken one."

The two churches that emerged from his decision certainly face very different challenges. Holy Cross, abustle with anticipation and unburdened by differences with its hierarchy, is clearly the happier place. Its members support Beach when he says Holy Cross represents "not a rebellion but a refocusing on what a church is supposed to be." The new, 200-plus congregation includes not just St. Alban's refugees but also ex-Episcopalians from all over north central Georgia. "I'm conservative," says Ken Lander, St. Alban's former praise and worship leader. "Foley took a stand, and I went with him. I couldn't raise my children in the Episcopal Church." Eight Bible-study classes and a baby-sitting service suggest that others feel similarly. If there is any looming shadow, it is that Strickland, Holy Cross's financial angel, founded two other churches and abandoned them after clashes with their pastors. Cautions a previous beneficiary: "He'll put $1 million into Holy Cross. But what happens when Foley makes him unhappy?"

St. Alban's has more immediate concerns. It lost not only Beach but also as much as half of its congregation, a third of its vestry, its organist and, says a warden, "half of almost everything else - ushers, choir, acolytes, people who make the coffee." The average age of congregants has jumped to somewhere in the 50s, and there are far fewer children. Donations are down a third. "All the years we struggled to build this church, we're right back where we started," says a desolate Henson. "How do you hire a rector without money?" Bishop Alexander insists that the diocese will help out as needed, however, and junior warden Steve Poole says the church hasn't dipped into its reserve fund. Citing a new lunch-and-tutoring program for local grade schoolers, Poole maintains that after a tough winter, St. Alban's has found "new energy and strength. There's nothing broken here. It's just smaller."

One might similarly argue that the local social fabric is not torn, just very strained. Poole says he looks forward to seeing Beach in the stands at high school football games ("I miss him"). But others speak of rumors bandied, invitations not received and phone calls unreturned. Some families have split up on Sundays, and others have fought. Irene Parker wanted to "follow my heart" and go to Holy Cross. Her husband, a St. Alban's vestryman, wanted to stay. "Todd and I had a huge fight, the biggest argument of our marriage," she says. "Todd said he didn't believe God meant to split our family. I read Scripture and prayed and decided to stay and fight for St. Alban's and the Episcopal Church."

St. Alban's held its 50th anniversary party in July. A good time was reportedly had. A few Holy Crossers showed up, although Beach was on vacation with his family, so he didn't. Bishop Alexander attended, though, and during his remarks pointedly observed that the congregation had returned the word Episcopal, which Beach had removed, to its church sign. Most of his listeners applauded. Some did not. In a situation like this, such moments are to be expected. Again and again and again.

— With reporting by Helen Gibson/London