As an agnostic heterosexual, I'm surely the best person to pontificate on the subject of gay Christians. Aren't I? Oh well, at least I didn't mention St Sebastian:
Several years ago, I got chatting to a middle-aged gent at a party. For some reason, the conversation got around to the early-80s pop combo Haircut 100, renowned for their Arran sweaters, knickerbockers and fresh-faced grins. My new friend mentioned that he had recently sat behind the band's singer, Nick Heyward, on a plane, and had had great trouble resisting the urge to stroke the nape of his still-boyish neck.
The discussion followed in this vein for some time. The silver-haired charmer was not simply homosexual: he was effusively, dramatically, openly camp, full of gossip and innuendo, often lapsing into well-enunciated polari. Forgive the stereotypes, but I guessed he might be an actor, or maybe the manager of a louche members' club. Until, that is, he glanced at his watch and announced that he'd better be going sometime soon, because he hadn't finished writing tomorrow's sermon...
More tea in the vestry.