Last night, we watched Spirited—my favorite Christmas movie. I’ve seen it more than once, and every time I do, it hits me differently. Maybe it’s because it’s funny, heartfelt, and surprisingly profound. Maybe it’s because, beneath the music and humor, there’s a deep truth about redemption that speaks to the world we’re living in right now—a world that seems desperate for grace but too divided to receive it.
If you haven’t seen it, Spirited is a modern retelling of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, but with a twist. It’s told not from the perspective of the person being “saved,” but from the ghosts themselves—the ones who spend eternity trying to redeem others. Will Ferrell plays the Ghost of Christmas Present, and Ryan Reynolds plays Clint Briggs, a man whose life—and profession—runs on manipulation and power. Clint is what you might call “unredeemable,” at least by the world’s standards. He profits off division. He makes his living by fueling outrage and controlling narratives. And if that doesn’t sound like the modern world, I don’t know what does.
But what Spirited does so beautifully is ask the question: Can people really change?
It’s a question that feels heavier now than ever. We scroll through headlines, watch political chaos, see cruelty online, and we wonder—has the world lost its ability to change? Are we too far gone, too cynical, too broken?
The movie doesn’t shy away from that question. In fact, it wrestles with it. The Ghost of Christmas Present himself is living proof that change is possible—he was once Ebenezer Scrooge, the man who invented redemption in the Christmas story. And yet, even he doubts whether a soul as jaded and morally bankrupt as Clint’s could ever find light again.
That tension—the desire to believe in goodness, but the exhaustion of disappointment—is what makes Spirited so relevant today.
Because if we’re honest, we’ve all become a little like Clint. Maybe not in greed or fame, but in spirit. We’ve learned to build walls around our hearts. We’ve become skeptical of sincerity, quick to judge, quick to divide. We scroll through the suffering of others and feel overwhelmed but detached. It’s not because we don’t care—it’s because caring feels too heavy in a world that never stops hurting.
But Spirited reminds us of something simple, something ancient: people can change.
And not because they’re shamed into it, or forced into it, but because somewhere deep inside every human being is the spark of something divine—the longing to be better. The longing to be seen, forgiven, and loved anyway.
In one of the film’s most powerful scenes, Clint asks, “What’s the point of changing if the world doesn’t?” It’s a valid question. Why should I change when everything around me stays cruel, corrupt, or indifferent? Why should I forgive when others keep wounding? Why should I be kind when kindness seems so small against the noise?
The answer comes quietly but powerfully: Because one person changing changes everything.
That’s what Dickens believed when he wrote A Christmas Carol. That’s what Spirited believes too. Redemption is never wasted. When one heart turns toward compassion, it ripples outward. It lights something in the people around it.
And isn’t that what we need right now?
The world feels heavy. Division has become the default language. We judge each other by labels and ideologies instead of hearts. We scroll through highlight reels of lives we don’t have and wonder why we feel empty. We’ve confused outrage with purpose, noise with meaning, and performance with love.
But Spirited flips the script—it reminds us that change doesn’t start with a grand movement. It starts in one person. One choice. One act of courage to say, I can be different. I can do better.
It’s both humbling and hopeful.
There’s a moment in the film when Clint, after being confronted by the ghosts, sees the chain reaction of his actions—the lives he’s influenced, the harm he’s caused. It’s devastating. Because deep down, he’s not heartless; he’s just buried himself under years of cynicism. That’s how most of us end up lost—not because we don’t care, but because caring hurts. So we stop.
But love, as Spirited shows us, is choosing to care anyway.
By the end, Clint begins to see the power of redemption. Not the kind that erases the past, but the kind that transforms it into something new. He realizes that even if he can’t undo the damage, he can still choose to do good. He can still choose to be a light.
That’s the essence of grace—it’s never too late to begin again.
And that’s what makes Spirited feel like more than just a Christmas movie. It’s a reflection of the world’s current ache—the exhaustion, the disillusionment, the longing for something pure and true. It’s a reminder that change is possible, but it begins in the mirror.
Because if we wait for the world to get better before we act with compassion, it never will. But if we act with compassion even when it doesn’t make sense—that’s when heaven breaks through.
There’s another thread in the movie that hits deeply: the theme of legacy. The Ghost of Christmas Present has been replaying the same cycle for centuries—redeeming one soul at a time—believing it’s enough, yet wondering if it truly matters. That, too, feels familiar. How many of us wake up and wonder if what we do makes a difference? If our prayers, our efforts, our small acts of love actually matter in the grand scheme of things?
The truth is—they do.
Every person who has ever been changed for the better has been changed by someone else’s kindness, someone else’s patience, someone else’s faith in them. That’s how redemption works. It’s never just personal—it’s contagious.
When one person chooses forgiveness over bitterness, someone else feels it. When one person chooses integrity in a world of shortcuts, someone else notices. When one person chooses love in a culture obsessed with self, it sparks something that spreads.
Spirited captures that truth with humor and heart. It uses song and satire to remind us that the world doesn’t change through force—it changes through love. Through compassion. Through the small, consistent acts of choosing light when darkness would be easier.
And that’s what Christmas has always been about.
The miracle of Christ’s birth wasn’t grand by the world’s standards. It wasn’t announced in palaces or to kings. It came quietly, to a humble stable, to a world too busy to notice. God didn’t wait for the world to be ready—He came because it wasn’t. He came because we needed redemption, and we still do.
That’s what Spirited echoes so beautifully: the idea that grace shows up even in the most unlikely places—even in people who think they’re beyond saving.
When Clint begins to change, it doesn’t come from guilt—it comes from being seen. Really seen. That’s the kind of love that changes people—the kind that looks past what they’ve done and sees who they could become.
We need more of that. We need a world that sees each other with mercy instead of judgment. A world that believes in second chances, not just for others, but for itself.
Because right now, we’re all a little like the characters in Spirited—haunted by regret, driven by fear, and desperate for meaning. We see injustice, we see suffering, and we wonder how to fix it all. But maybe the answer isn’t in fixing the whole world—it’s in loving the piece of it that’s in front of us.
The movie closes with a message that lingers long after the credits roll: redemption is not a one-time event—it’s a daily choice. Every day, we get to decide who we will be. Every day, we get to choose kindness, forgiveness, humility, and hope.
And maybe, if we all started doing that—if we all started believing again that people can change—the world might begin to heal.
Because at its heart, Spirited isn’t just about Christmas. It’s about resurrection. It’s about finding life where there used to be despair. It’s about discovering that you can’t change your past, but you can let grace change your future.
And isn’t that what faith is all about?
Faith isn’t a naïve belief that the world is good—it’s a defiant trust that goodness can still win, even when the world isn’t. It’s hope that refuses to die, even when it’s tested.
That’s why Spirited feels so timely. Because it doesn’t ignore the darkness of the world—it acknowledges it. It just reminds us that darkness doesn’t get the final word.
Light does.
And that light begins with love.
So as the year draws to a close, and we step into another uncertain season, maybe we can carry that message with us. Maybe we can be a little more patient with people who are struggling. Maybe we can forgive someone who hurt us. Maybe we can look at the world—not as unredeemable—but as a place still waiting to be transformed, one soul at a time.
Because just like the ghosts in Spirited, we each have a choice—to live in cycles of bitterness, or to become vessels of redemption.
And love, if we let it, will hold us together.
Not the loud, polished kind of love, but the quiet, resilient kind. The kind that listens. The kind that believes. The kind that keeps showing up, even when the world doesn’t notice.
That’s the spirit of Christmas. That’s the spirit of redemption. That’s the spirit the world needs most right now.
And maybe, if we start living it—not just in December, but all year long—we might just wake up one morning to find that heaven has moved a little closer.
Not through policy or perfection.
Not through power or control.
But through love—simple, steady, stubborn love.
The kind that changes hearts.
The kind that changes stories.
The kind that changes everything.
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