WASHINGTON — When Andi Kasarsky’s husband died six years ago, members of her synagogue came to sit shiva — the customary Jewish ritual of mourning — with her.

They came in shifts for days, many of them strangers, to share her grief. And although Kasarsky was mourning her husband, many of the grievers were gay.

She was so touched by the support that Kasarsky, 54, became a more faithful member of Bet Mishpachah, an unaffiliated Washington congregation of around 200 gays and lesbians. She’s just one of many heterosexuals who are finding God in predominantly gay houses of worship.

“Mishpachah means family and they were truly family to me,” said Kasarsky. “Isn’t that what we want and look for and hope for in a religious community?”

As faith-minded gays and lesbians struggle for acceptance in predominantly heterosexual churches and synagogues, the idea that heterosexuals seek out gay houses of worship might seem strange, but it happens more often than one might think.

Denver Schimming, 51, and his wife Sheila Hobson, 48, were in the market for a liberal-minded church in Nashville, Tenn. — “the buckle of the Bible Belt,” he says — and knew they found something different at Holy Trinity Community Church, where 90 percent of its 350 members are gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender (GLBT).

“I laugh and say we’re the token straight couple, but I kid you not, they treat us like royalty,” said Hobson. “They are so loving and giving.”

The Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., and others once called 11:00 on Sunday morning the most segregated hour in Christian America; indeed, sexual orientation can be just as divisive. Just as churches were split into white and black, they have also split between gay and straight.

Alternative faith communities that cater to GLBT believers, such as Holy Trinity and Bet Mishpachah, were an outgrowth of the gay rights movement that took root 40 years ago. “Inclusion” is the buzzword for many of these congregations.

Rabbi Toby Manewith, a straight woman who was recently installed as Bet Mishpachah’s new rabbi, said the radical welcome grows out of “members’ experience of being on the outside.”

“Everyone who comes here, no matter their sexual or gender identity, religious affiliation or knowledge, everyone is welcomed with open arms,” said Manewith, 43. “You’d hope that would happen in all religious communities, but the truth is it’s not an easy thing to put into practice.”

Some straight believers attend out of a sense of solidarity or social justice. Others wandered in by accident, or were invited by a gay friend or family member, and simply felt at home and decided to stay.

While some congregations — such as those that belong to the 43,000-member Metropolitan Community Churches (MCC) — were formed to deliberately minister to gays and lesbians, others took a more organic approach as their surroundings changed. That’s what happened at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, in the heart of Washington’s gay Dupont Circle neighborhood.

Kristin Jones, 56, stumbled upon St. Thomas nearly 25 years ago when it was, as she put it, full of elderly church ladies and young gay men. She came because she liked to sing in the choir; she stayed even though women — let alone straight women — are still the minority.

The church has seen Jones through single motherhood; 60 members threw her a baby shower as she prepared to adopt her first of two daughters from China. With time, “I started thinking of St. Thomas as my tribe,” she said.

Even with the support, being the straight sheep in a gay flock is not without its predictable oddities. Ivan Zimmerman, 51, remembers congregants assuming he was gay during his early days at Congregation Beth Simchat Torah, a renowned predominantly gay 700-member synagogue in New York City.

“I would joke and say I’ve come to terms with my heterosexuality,” Zimmerman said.

The minority status that straight members experience provides a taste of what GLBT people face daily — and that can even be appealing, straight worshippers said. Avrum Weiss and his wife were the only heterosexual couple when they joined Atlanta’s mostly gay Bet Haverim synagogue; now, half of the congregation’s 200 members are straight.

“Judaism is rooted in a long history of oppression and suffering,” Weiss said. “… When you sit in a room with people who are in that moment living through oppression, it’s a dramatically different experience.”

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The founding MCC church in Los Angeles has also seen a spike in straight worshipers since moving to a new neighborhood. Cathedral of Hope, a gay megachurch of 4,000 in Dallas, has seen a similar increase, but the straight membership still hovers at less than 5 percent.

While gay congregations crave growth and vitality, some wonder if an influx of heterosexuals might change the character of faith communities that were formed to minister to minorities.

The Rev. Nancy Wilson, the moderator of the MCC, says her churches aren’t going out of business anytime soon, but life might get more complex.

“Who connects to and relates to this ministry is much more complicated than it would have been in the early ’70s, when it was mostly gay men, and white gay men at that,” she said.

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Still, at the end of the day, a community of faith is more than labels. Even though attending a mostly gay synagogue doesn’t help her love life now that she’s dating again, Kasarsky, of Bet Mishpachah, said it nonetheless fulfills her spiritual needs.

“It’s just another Jewish community,” she said. “It just happens to be with lesbians and gays, which never mattered to me.”