Casablanca: Longing, Love, and the Ethics of Letting Go

A classic scene from "Casablanca," featuring the two main characters sharing a poignant moment together, capturing the film's timeless romance and drama.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve watched Casablanca. Some people unwind with a glass of wine or a playlist—me? I turn to Rick Blaine in a smoky Moroccan bar, playing chess with himself and pretending not to care about the world unraveling outside his café doors.

It’s one of those films that always hits differently depending on when you watch it. Sometimes I watch it for the dialogue (“Here’s looking at you, kid”). Sometimes for the cinematography, or for Sam playing “As Time Goes By” with that beautiful ache in his voice. But lately, I’ve been watching Casablanca for the theology of it.

Yes, the theology.

At its heart, Casablanca is a story about love, sacrifice, moral ambiguity, and what it means to choose the greater good when it breaks your heart. And I think that’s why it’s endured—not because it’s tidy or romantic in the way we expect, but because it offers something deeper: a kind of emotional and spiritual realism we rarely see on screen.

The Personal Lens: Why I Keep Coming Back

I first discovered Casablanca as a preteen when I didn’t fully understand what it meant to be disillusioned or self-protective. But I loved the aesthetic—black-and-white glamour, Ingrid Bergman’s quiet elegance, Humphrey Bogart’s wounded cool. I was captivated. And maybe even a little confused.

Now, years later, as someone studying theology and preparing for a career in law, I see Casablanca less as a love story and more as an ethical case study. It’s about divided loyalties. About power, and powerlessness. About what we owe to the people we love—and what we owe to the world.

And honestly, it's about longing. That bittersweet, unnameable ache that lives somewhere between nostalgia and hope. The kind of longing that feels spiritual.

Rick Blaine and the Theology of Disillusionment

Rick is one of the most emotionally complex characters in cinema. He begins the film with a hard shell: “I stick my neck out for nobody.” But we learn quickly that it’s all a defense mechanism. He’s been hurt. He’s lost. And now, he hides his pain behind sarcasm, neutrality, and an expensive suit.

That posture isn’t foreign to me. It’s easy—even tempting—to live with that kind of cynicism, especially when the world feels chaotic and unpredictable. But what strikes me every time is that Rick’s transformation doesn’t come through some grand epiphany. It comes through a slow, painful unraveling. Through remembering what he loved. Through facing the people he lost. Through deciding that neutrality isn’t noble—it’s cowardice.

Rick’s eventual choice to let Ilsa go, to put her and her husband’s mission above his own desire, isn’t just noble—it’s sacrificial. And in that, I see the echoes of Christ.

Love as Sacrifice, Not Sentiment

There’s a moment near the end when Rick tells Ilsa, “We’ll always have Paris.” It’s one of the most iconic lines in cinema, and it’s absolutely heartbreaking. But also deeply theological.

So often, we think love is about getting what we want. About holding on. About finding comfort. But in Scripture, love is defined by its willingness to give—its ability to surrender power for the sake of another. Rick doesn’t just walk away from a woman; he walks away from an entire alternate life. From safety. From a chance to stop feeling so alone.

I think that’s one of the reasons Casablanca still resonates: it understands that real love isn’t just romance. It’s costly. It’s complicated. It requires moral clarity in moments that are anything but clear.

Faith in a Foggy World

What’s fascinating is that Casablanca was made during World War II—before the outcome was known. That’s part of its power. It’s a film born in uncertainty. There’s no guarantee of victory, no neat resolution. Just the foggy runway, the tension of the moment, and the decision to do what’s right even when it hurts.

In theology, we call that hope—not blind optimism, but a choice to act with integrity even in the middle of chaos. A belief that truth and sacrifice matter, even if you don’t live to see the reward. In a way, Rick’s decision is an act of faith. He chooses a future he won’t be part of. He believes in a freedom he’ll never enjoy. And that—if we’re honest—is what we’re called to do so often in the life of faith.

What Casablanca Taught Me About Letting Go

As someone who struggles with control, who clings tightly to ideals and relationships and plans, Casablanca is a beautiful, difficult reminder that letting go isn’t always defeat. Sometimes, it’s the highest form of love.

Rick doesn’t get the girl. He doesn’t win the war. But he becomes something he wasn’t at the start of the film: free.

And maybe that’s the quiet gospel underneath the final fog-drenched scene. That when we give up what we love for the sake of something greater, we’re not losing—we’re becoming. Becoming whole. Becoming honest. Becoming ready to walk out into the fog with courage.

So yes, I rewatch Casablanca a lot. But maybe it’s not a waste of time. Maybe it’s a kind of liturgy. A ritual. A way of remembering that love isn’t always found in holding on, but in learning when to let go.

And maybe that’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship—with courage, with faith, with truth.