Working Out Your Salvation: Why Spiritual Freelancers Miss Everything

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Look, I know you’re not all the same. Some of you have been genuinely hurt by church—by religious people, by institutions that failed you, by hypocrisy that made you angry and cautious. You’ve experienced judgment, abuse, or just plain cruelty from those who claimed to represent God. Church is full of broken people doing broken things. That’s real. We’ve failed you in real ways. We’ve been gatekeepers when we should have been welcomers. We’ve been condemning when we should have been healing. We’ve protected abusers. We’ve marginalized the hurting. We’ve claimed to speak for God while acting nothing like Him. And that’s not okay. Your pain is valid. Your anger might be completely justified.

But I also know many of you aren’t carrying that particular wound. Your skepticism comes from somewhere else. Maybe you’ve picked up the idea that all hierarchies are oppressive, that organized religion is inherently corrupt. Or maybe you’re skeptical of the Christian claims themselves. You’re not sure Jesus actually rose from the dead. You’re not convinced the Bible is God’s Word. You’re not even certain God exists. So the whole thing: church, submission, commitment to a faith community, seems pointless. Why would you bind yourself to a community built on claims you’re not convinced about?

I could see these as two separate problems. But I can’t. Because here’s the weird thing: both of you—whether you’re running from a wound or running from a claim you don’t believe—have ended up in the same place.

You’ve decided that being a spiritual freelancer is the better path. You want faith without institutions. Spirituality without submission. And I understand the appeal. I do. But here’s what I’ve noticed: you’re both using the same justification for this choice. Maybe not consciously, but it’s there. You’ve found a verse you think backs you up. One that seems to give you permission to figure out your faith your way.

The problem is, you’re reading it backwards. And what you’re missing because of that misreading could actually change your life. Let me show you what I mean.

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What Is a Spiritual Freelancer?

By “spiritual freelancer,” I mean someone who’s decided they want a relationship with God without the commitment to a local church community. You want the benefits of faith—meaning, peace, and connection to the transcendent—but on your own terms. You’ll take what works from different traditions, skip what doesn’t fit your life, and answer to no one but yourself and God. You’re your own spiritual director.

Maybe you meditate on Scripture, read Christian books, and listen to podcasts from teachers you like. You’ll take the spiritual practices that resonate and leave the rest. You pray, sometimes. You believe in God, sort of. But Sunday morning at a local church? Being accountable to a pastor? Sitting with people who annoy you? Having someone ask where you’ve been? That’s where you draw the line. You follow Jesus without the church. You’re “spiritual but not religious.”

And you’ve found a verse that you think proves you’re right: “Work out your salvation with fear and trembling.”

Here’s the problem: you’re reading it backwards. And more importantly, you’re missing the entire point of what Paul is actually calling you to.

What Paul Actually Said

Let me read you the whole context, because this matters:

“Therefore, my dear friends, as you have always obeyed—not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence—continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act to fulfill his good purpose. Do everything without grumbling or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, ‘children of God without fault in a warped and crooked generation.’ Then you will shine among them like stars in the sky as you hold firmly to the word of life” (Philippians 2:12-16).

Notice something? Paul says “work out your salvation” in the context of a community. He’s writing to the church at Philippi. He’s talking about their corporate life together. And then he immediately tells them how to behave toward each other: no grumbling, no arguing, no division. He’s not calling individuals to figure it out solo. He’s calling a whole congregation to work together, to submit to each other, to become holy as one community.

Here’s what “work out your salvation” actually means. It’s not you alone in your room with your Bible and your intuition, trying to figure out what God wants. It’s you in a church, with other believers, under real authority, in actual accountability, becoming who Christ is calling you to be.

But you want to flip this. You want to make “work out” mean “figure it out yourself.” And here’s the thing—the Greek word Paul uses is katergazomai. It literally means “to bring about” or “to accomplish.” But—and this is crucial—the preposition carries the sense of doing it within a community. Paul isn’t saying “figure out your own spiritual path.” He’s saying, “accomplish your salvation together.” The verb itself implies cooperation, not isolation. You’re not working it out alone, you’re working it out together.

And if I’m being honest? Your real problem isn’t with what Paul wrote. Your problem is with authority.

The Real Issue: You Don’t Want to Submit to Anything

Let me say this gently but clearly: your rejection of the church isn’t primarily about the church’s failures. It’s about your refusal to answer to anyone but yourself.

You got hurt by an authority figure—a pastor, a parent, a religious leader. That happened. It matters. But somewhere along the way, you decided the solution to bad authority is no authority. And you’ve baptized it as spiritual maturity. You’ve called it authenticity. You’ve dressed it up as humility. “I don’t claim to have it all figured out,” you say. “I’m just seeking truth wherever I find it.”

But that’s not humility. That’s the opposite.

Real humility is saying, “I’m broken. I’m prone to self-deception. I can’t see my own blind spots. I need people wiser than me to speak into my life. I need a community to hold me accountable. I need authority—good authority—to guide me.” That’s humility. That’s what Paul is calling for in Philippians 2.

I get it. You’ve seen the church hurt people. You’ve seen institutions abuse power. So the idea of submitting to authority again feels dangerous. I’m not asking you to go back to that. I’m asking you to imagine something different, a community that’s trying to get it right, even if imperfectly. Because there’s a difference between bad authority and good authority, and it matters.

Bad authority uses power to control. It says, “Don’t question me.” It protects itself at the expense of the vulnerable. Good authority uses proximity and care to guide. It says, “Question me, but do it with people who know you.” A bad pastor tells you what to think. A good pastor—even an imperfect one—says, “I see where you’re headed, and I’ve been there, and here’s what I wish I’d known.” There’s a real difference.

Now, before you dismiss me as someone defending an institution that’s fed my family—let me cut you off there. You’re right. I’ve been a pastor. The church has given me a living. It’s shaped my entire life. So yes, I have skin in this game, and you’d be naive not to notice that.

But here’s the thing: I’m not defending the church because I benefit from it. I’m defending the community because I’ve watched what happens when people walk away thinking they’re more enlightened. I’ve seen the isolation. The spiritual pride disguised as humility. The slow shrivel when someone convinces themselves they don’t need anybody.

And here’s my challenge: if the church is just an oppressive institution I’m protecting because I need the paycheck, then my arguments won’t hold up. You don’t need to dismiss me because of my bias. Just prove me wrong. Read what Paul actually says. Check my work. See if I’m twisting Scripture. I don’t think I am. But don’t take my word—take his.

What you’re calling humility is actually pride. It’s a refusal to submit. It’s saying, “I know better than 2,000 years of Christian tradition. I know better than a gathered community of believers. I know better than people who actually know me and love me enough to tell me hard truths.” That’s not seeking truth. That’s protecting yourself from the very thing that could actually change you: submission.

And here’s where it gets uncomfortable: you can’t work out your salvation alone. Not because I say so. Because Paul says so. Because the nature of salvation is communal.

Why You Need Community (Whether You Want to Admit It or Not)

Look at what comes before this passage. Philippians 2:1-11 is Paul’s call to humility—specifically humility in community. “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit,” he says. “Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others” (2:3-4).

He’s not talking about personal spiritual discipline. He’s talking about how you treat other people. How you lay down your rights. How you submit your preferences. How do you consider others’ needs as important as your own?

Then he gives the ultimate example: Jesus emptied himself. Jesus submitted. Jesus became obedient to death (2:7-8). And because Jesus did that, He was exalted. Obedience. Submission. Laying down your will. That’s where glory comes from.

This only makes sense with other people. You can’t practice humility alone. Submission? You learn that from real people, not by yourself. You can’t lay down your rights if nobody is asking you to. And you can’t become more like Christ in isolation—transformation happens in how you treat people. You need people for that.

Let me make this concrete. I had a parishioner named Mark who thought he had humility figured out. He was kind to people, he didn’t talk about himself much, he seemed like a genuinely humble guy. But then his wife, his small group, and his pastor all noticed something: he never asked for help. Never. His kid got sick, he insisted he didn’t need meals. Lost his job, he didn’t want prayer. His thinking was “humility means being self-sufficient.” But one day I said to him: “You’re actually being arrogant. You’re assuming you’re strong enough to handle everything alone, that you don’t need us. But that’s not faith—that’s pride.” It destroyed him to hear it. But it also freed him. Because he realized humility isn’t independence. It’s dependence. It’s admitting you need people.

That couldn’t have happened alone. That could only happen in community.

You’re getting salvation all wrong. You think it’s your personal enlightenment, your individual peace with God, your own spiritual thing. And yes, those matter. But salvation—real, biblical, Paul-taught salvation—is about becoming part of something bigger than yourself. It’s about being grafted into the body of Christ, submitted to His authority, submitted to His body, and working out your salvation together with His people.

You can’t do that alone. It’s impossible. It’s like trying to understand music by refusing to ever hear it with other people; you might study theory forever. Still, you’ll never experience what music is meant to be.

About Grace and Effort (Because You’ll Ask)

You might be thinking, “But doesn’t grace mean I don’t need all this submission and accountability? Isn’t grace enough?”

Yes. And no.

Grace saves you. Grace justifies you. It’s God’s free gift that no amount of work can earn. It’s finished. Done. This is where Paul and I completely agree.

But grace doesn’t stop the moment you believe. Grace places you in a community. It gives you the Holy Spirit working through that community to change you. And grace calls you to submit, to listen, to be shaped by people who actually know you and love you. Grace doesn’t free you from community. It frees you for community. It gives you the power to lay down your rights, to serve others, and to be changed through relationships.

Here’s how this actually works in practice: You believe. You’re justified. That’s done. But then—and this is where people get confused—grace also places you. It puts you in a family. And that family becomes the mechanism of your ongoing transformation. Your pastor sees your pride and calls it out—not to condemn you, but because grace is working through him to change you. Your community group notices you’re serving others out of performance, not love, and gently confronts you. That’s grace working. Not outside the community, but through it. The Holy Spirit doesn’t usually come to you in isolation, saying, “Hey, you’re being a jerk.” He usually sends a friend to say it, because you’ll actually listen to someone who knows you.

That’s what “work out your salvation” means. It’s the ongoing work of becoming holy, and you can’t do it alone.

What You’re Actually Missing

Here’s what grieves me about spiritual freelancers: you think you’re protecting yourself from judgment, but what you’re actually doing is cutting yourself off from love. Real love. The kind that actually changes you.

You’re missing the pastor who knows you—knows your history, your struggles, what you can’t see about yourself—and tells you hard truths because he cares about your soul. You’re missing the community group that calls you out when you’re being selfish and holds you when you’re falling apart. You’re missing the accountability that makes you better. You’re missing centuries of Christians wrestling with Scripture, figuring out how to actually follow Jesus. That tradition could guide you instead of you reinventing everything every time you have a question.

You’re missing gathered worship—the singing, the praying, the confession, the repentance together. You’re missing the Eucharist, that physical reminder you’re part of something ancient and true. You’re missing the people who show up at your hospital bed, who watch your kids, who mourn with you, who challenge you, who know your name.

You’re missing family.

Think about that for a moment. All of that—the knowledge, the accountability, the belonging, the tradition—is what you’re trading away for independence.

I think of Melanie. Wise woman, really thoughtful about faith. Left the church fifteen years ago—bad experience with a controlling pastor. Since then, she’s had a personal spiritual practice. Reads extensively. Meditates. Genuinely seeking. But here’s what I’ve watched: she’s changed in ways she doesn’t see. There’s no one to tell her. She’s become judgmental of “religious people.” She’s developed some theological views that are questionable, but there’s no one close enough to challenge them. When her brother got sick, she was utterly alone in her anxiety because she’d built a spiritual life that didn’t include people who would sit with her. When she faced a moral question about her business, there was no trusted mentor to ask. She’s been alone in her faith for so long that community feels foreign now. And that’s the slow shrivel I’m talking about—not dramatic, just a slow erosion of the very growth she was seeking.

Someone will say they’re getting that from online communities, spiritual influencers, or their meditation practice. You’re not. Those things might feel like something, but they’re not this. Real community needs presence. It needs vulnerability. It needs submission to people you can actually touch. It needs people who know you well enough—who love you enough—to say hard things.

You’re trying to have faith without family. It doesn’t work.

This Is Still an Invitation

And I say that not to condemn you, but because I believe there’s another way. There’s still time.

I know I’ve been hard on you. And I needed to be. But here’s what I want you to hear: you can come back. You can stop being a spiritual freelancer. You can admit you got this one wrong—not the part about the church being broken (it is), but the solution. You can find a church that’s actually trying to follow Jesus—honestly, imperfectly, together. And you can be part of it.

It won’t be perfect. You’ll be disappointed again. Church people will hurt you, because we’re all broken. That’s guaranteed. But you won’t be alone. And that matters. That changes everything.

I’m not asking you to pretend the church is perfect. It’s not. I’m asking you to believe that being part of a flawed family is better than being alone. That’s not naive. That’s just true. The most transformative experiences of my life haven’t been my private prayers. They’ve been sitting in a room with people I love and who love me, being known and known, being challenged and held. You could have that too. You could stop performing your spiritual journey for an online audience and actually live it with people. That’s what I’m inviting you to. Not religion. Just family.

You’ll discover that working out your salvation isn’t a solo project. It’s a team sport. It’s messy and hard and beautiful because you’re doing it with real people who love you, challenge you, and won’t let you hide.

That’s what Paul is calling you to. That’s what you’re missing.

So here’s my question: Are you willing to come home?

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