I often compared homelessness to a turnstile at a BART station. I was stuck in the turnstile, as its wheels rolled me rapidly around and around. Eventually, I would be spewed out of the turnstile, on one side of the other: either inside or out.

I completely understood why people didn’t want to have me over, because I probably wouldn’t want me over either. But at the same time, I asked them, where is compassion? Who has a heart? Can’t somebody bend for a little while? When is anybody going to realize that I’m not going to be able to solve any of my “boundary issues” or exacerbations of ADHD or Bipolar Disorder if I don’t find that somebody loves me enough to make a simple sacrifice — and, yet, nobody will.

My greatest challenge is when I try to say no repeatedly to a person who won’t take no for an answer. I need to learn how to say no politely, kindly and firmly. And in all my years, I have not been practiced at doing so.

Before long, I learned that not only were they not Christians, but that many of them were vehemently opposed to Christianity. After a while, I realized that many of these people based their views largely on reports of a certain megachurch and its derivative churches, purporting to embrace Reformed theology.

I may never be homeless again. But that doesn't mean I have to forsake all the things that were good about homelessness — or at least about homelessness in Berkeley.

I ask my fellow Christians these questions: Where did we first hear “Abortion is murder?” Where did we first hear “Life begins at conception?” We did not read them in our Bibles. They simply are not there.