How This False Messiah Almost Broke Judaism

In 1665, a Jewish man named Sabbatai Zevi declared himself the Messiah in a synagogue in Ottoman Turkey, sparking an extraordinary mass religious movement across the Jewish world. Thousands of Jews, from North Africa to Europe, sold their homes and prepared to follow him to the Holy Land. Rabbis who doubted him were afraid to voice their concerns, and even the secretary of the Royal Society of London had to acknowledge the movement's impact. However, just a year later, Sabbatai Zevi converted to Islam. This event, rather than destroying the movement, paradoxically, in some ways, made it stronger, becoming a profound story about human suffering, weaponized hope, and the resilient nature of belief in the face of contradictory evidence. The 17th century was a period of immense crisis, marked by climate change, plagues, civil wars, and widespread violence, particularly in Europe and the northern hemisphere. For Jewish communities, this era was even more devastating, building upon centuries of persecution, forced exile, and massacres. The year 1648 saw brutal massacres in Poland and Ukraine, led by a Cossack commander, Kamil Nitski, which obliterated entire Jewish communities. These events, known as the Decrees of 1648 and 1649, resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of Jews, leaving generations without a sense of safety or a permanent home. This pervasive suffering led to a collective yearning for the Messiah, a descendant of King David prophesied to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem and gather the Jewish exiles. Decades earlier, a Jewish mystic named Isaac Luria introduced a framework for understanding this suffering through his teachings, known as Lurianic Kabbalah. This framework suggested that persecution was not random but part of a cosmic plan, where sparks of holiness were trapped in darkness, and human actions could help repair the world. Luria's teachings provided a theological context for the suffering, implying that the Messiah's arrival was imminent and that their pain had a purpose, leading to eventual redemption. By the 1600s, Luria's ideas had become a central pillar of Jewish mystical thought, especially in the Ottoman Empire and Eastern Europe, influencing how ordinary Jews perceived their lives and suffering. This meant that by the time Sabbatai Zevi was born in 1626, a large, dispersed population was already primed to believe that their suffering was about to end and that the Messiah was near. Sabbatai Zevi was born in Smyrna (modern-day Izmir, Turkey) into a Jewish merchant family. From a young age, he delved into traditional Talmudic study and the circulating currents of Kabbalah. His birth on Tisha B'Av, the anniversary of the destruction of the ancient temples in Jerusalem and a prophesied birth date for the Messiah, along with his name, Sabbatai (referencing Shabbat), imbued him with messianic symbolism even before he acted. Sabbatai was charismatic and possessed a remarkable memory, receiving rabbinic ordination by the age of 20, an unusual feat for his youth. He was handsome, had a great singing voice, and commanded attention. However, he also exhibited cycles of behavior consistent with what modern scholars might identify as bipolar disorder. During his manic phases, he felt divinely connected, experiencing moments of illumination. In his depressive periods, he withdrew, feeling abandoned by God and tormented. These manic states often compelled him to violate Jewish law, such as performing strange rituals or publicly pronouncing the Tetragrammaton, the sacred, unspeakable name of God, in a synagogue – an act reserved only for the High Priest once a year. While other rabbis viewed this as outrageous, his followers, influenced by Lurianic ideas, interpreted such boundary-breaking behavior as a sign of divine purpose, believing the Messiah might operate beyond conventional law to redeem dark places. Sabbatai was deeply ascetic, fasting for days, bathing in winter seas, and pushing his body to extremes. His early marriages ended because of his reclusive nature. In the late 1640s, amidst the Kmelnitski massacres, Sabbatai began making messianic declarations, hinting or explicitly stating his role as the Messiah, often reinforcing it by pronouncing the Tetragrammaton. The rabbis of Smyrna excommunicated and expelled him. For much of the 1650s, Sabbatai wandered from city to city, expelled from Salonica and Constantinople for similar reasons. Despite these expulsions, he consistently gathered small groups of followers who saw something in him, slowly building a minor following. The turning point came not from Sabbatai himself, but from Nathan of Gaza. Born in Jerusalem around 1643, Nathan was a respected scholar and Kabbalist, known for his spiritual insight. Sabbatai approached Nathan not as a Messiah, but as a struggling patient during one of his depressive phases. After a powerful vision, Nathan declared to Sabbatai, "You're not broken, you're chosen," convincing him to fully embrace his messianic identity. This endorsement from a credible spiritual authority was crucial. Nathan then took charge of the public aspects of the movement, declaring himself the reincarnation of Elijah, the prophet prophesied to appear before the Messiah. This gave the movement a Messiah and a prophetic forerunner, adding immense theological weight. Nathan began writing sophisticated letters, packed with Kabbalistic reasoning and scriptural arguments, to Jewish communities across Europe and the Middle East. He explained why Sabbatai was the Messiah, using Lurianic language that resonated with communities already steeped in those teachings. Nathan reframed all the suffering, exile, and even Sabbatai's erratic behavior as proof of the divine plan. Crucially, he set a deadline: the messianic age would begin in 1666, with Sabbatai conquering the world through divine authority, not war. The year 1666 already held prophetic significance in both Jewish and Christian traditions (due to the biblical number 666), making Nathan's deadline particularly potent. The deadline created immense urgency. Despite rabbinic opposition, Jews from Morocco to Northern Europe reacted to Sabbatai and Nathan's claims with enthusiasm or terror. News spread rapidly via letters, merchants, and word-of-mouth. Assimilated Jews returned to religious observance, and descendants of forcibly converted Jews in Spain and Portugal, who had hidden their Jewish identity for generations, openly embraced their roots. Synagogues displayed Sabbatai's initials, prayers for him were inserted into services, and his image appeared in prayer books. Social pressure mounted in communities, making doubt a risk. Even skeptical rabbis remained silent, fearing their congregations. The movement gained international attention. Henry Oldenburg, secretary of the Royal Society of London, wrote to philosopher Baruch Spinoza about the rumors of Israelites returning to their country, noting it could "bring a revolution in all things." As 1666 approached, Sabbatai abolished traditional fasting days of mourning for the destroyed temples, declaring there was nothing left to mourn since the Messiah had arrived, and announced the temple would be rebuilt within a year. These declarations reached the Ottoman Sultan, who viewed Sabbatai not as a spiritual figure but as a political threat planning to reclaim Jerusalem and overthrow the Ottoman Empire. In February 1666, as Sabbatai sailed towards Constantinople, the Ottoman Grand Vizier ordered his arrest. Imprisonment, however, only fueled belief among his followers, who interpreted his lenient treatment as a sign of divine recognition, and Nathan continued to report miracles from within the prison. Pilgrims traveled to the fortress at Gallipoli to be near him. The movement had become self-sustaining, reinforced by community belief and Nathan's theology. The unravelling came from within. A Polish Kabbalist, Nehemiah Hakohen, traveled to Sabbatai's prison as an investigator. After their meeting, Nehemiah declared Sabbatai an imposter. Fearing for his life, Nehemiah fled to Constantinople and informed Ottoman authorities of Sabbatai's followers' revolutionary beliefs. This was the final straw for the Sultan. Sabbatai was moved to Edirne and brought before Sultan Mehmed IV on charges of sedition. In a depressive state, Sabbatai denied all messianic claims. Given a choice between death (by arrows or impalement) or conversion to Islam, Sabbatai chose conversion. On September 16, 1666, he removed his Jewish garments, donned a Turkish turban, was given a new name (Aziz Mehmed Efendi), and received a paid appointment and pension in the Ottoman court. News of the conversion devastated Jewish communities. Muslims and Christians mocked them, and those who had sold their homes were left humiliated. A story emerged that Sabbatai had whispered he would convert only as long as his soul remained in his body, releasing a bird upon entering the Sultan's court to symbolize his soul's release, an allegory likely invented by followers to rationalize the incomprehensible event. Remarkably, Sabbatai's private letters suggest he never abandoned his messianic conviction, living outwardly as a Muslim for another decade while privately observing Jewish rituals. He died in exile in 1676. Despite this apparent collapse, the movement survived for thousands of followers. For them, the conversion was not disproof but a puzzle to be solved, integrated into the messianic plan. They argued the Messiah had to descend into impurity for ultimate holiness, seeing his conversion as a necessary mission into "enemy territory"—the darkest moment before dawn, a hidden divine plan. Nathan of Gaza, still believing, constructed a theological framework to support this, turning the absence of proof into a test of devotion, arguing that true faith meant believing without evidence. This concept, known as "sacred sin," posited that outer acts could be spiritually irrelevant or necessary as long as inner devotion remained intact, and that the Messiah's mission required actions beyond ordinary laws. Mainstream rabbinic authorities condemned this as heretical. From Sabbatai's most committed followers emerged the Dönmeh, a group who outwardly converted to Islam but secretly maintained Sabbatian rituals and beliefs for generations. They developed their own hybrid theology, distinct from both mainstream Judaism and Islam. Today, estimates suggest tens of thousands of Dönmeh descendants in Turkey, though their secrecy makes precise numbers difficult. This phenomenon is termed "belief perseverance" by psychologists: once heavily invested in a belief, people don't abandon it when evidence contradicts it; instead, they reframe failures as secret successes, making the investment itself a reason to continue, as the alternative is more painful. The story of Sabbatai Zevi is not about mass gullibility but about desperate and faithful people, primed by their theological frameworks and social pressures, who had invested too much to turn back. The question for us, then, is not how they believed, but what we ourselves are primed to believe without critical thought. The Sultan's decision to force Sabbatai's conversion instead of killing him was a clever political move. Killing him would have created a martyr and fueled the movement. By making him renounce his claims and work for the court, the Sultan effectively neutralized the revolutionary threat, avoiding potential skirmishes and unrest. Sabbatai Zevi's legacy also influenced later figures like Jacob Frank, who emerged a century later in Eastern Europe. Frank, leading a Jewish sect known as the Frankists, invoked Sabbatai Zevi, claiming to be his successor or reincarnation. Frank pushed Sabbatian ideas further, promoting antinomian concepts—the overturning of religious laws—and even alleged wild sexual rituals as a path to spiritual purification. Frankism became a radical offshoot, distilling the mystical and controversial foundations of Sabbatianism to an extreme level. The enduring lesson from Sabbatai Zevi's story is the power of human belief, especially when individuals are desperate, primed by their environment, and deeply invested. It illustrates how readily people can embrace narratives that offer a cure for their suffering and how difficult it is to be skeptical when such a figure emerges. The story compels reflection on our own frameworks and what we accept as truth without critical examination.