Shabtai Zvi exhibition explores the false Messiah who mesmerized Jews across the world

Fast forward 500 years and we get to one of the best-known of all the pretenders, Shabtai Zvi, an Ottoman-born Sephardic rabbi and kabbalist who was proclaimed as the Messiah in 1666 by Jerusalem-born theologian Nathan of Gaza. Shabtai Zvi is the subject of an intriguing well-researched exhibition currently on display at the Museum for Islamic Art, marking 400 years since his birth.

Shabtai Zvi – Truth or Lie, initiated by Edna Asis and curated by Dr. Hadar Feldman Samet, is an expansive, stratified offering with original centuries-old documents and books, alongside enlarged facsimiles, copies of posters advertising theatrical and other productions based on the messianic character, and recently created works of art, as well as a motley spread of video footage.

As we all know, to our dismay, almost anything that happens in, or touches on, this part of the world is construed or misconstrued as having some political intent. Surely that must be the case when it comes to the issue of the false Messiah. Senior museum guide Jenia Frumin is not too sure. “[Curator] Hadar [Feldman Samet] takes an approach, which I think is correct, of not relating to this story exclusively from the perspective of a false messiah.” Frumin expounds.

“This is not the only thing that is relevant to the concept of this story. At its peak, in 1666, according to estimates, something like 80% of the Jewish world believed that he was going to be the Messiah,” Frumin says.

That is surely a stunning statistic, especially if one considers that, in addition to the rank and file Jews of the day who, no doubt, were fed up to the back teeth of being persecuted wherever they set up their stalls, there were learned community leaders who followed the Shabtai Zvi flow. Perhaps, though, that should not come as such a bombshell if we think back to the sagacious Rabbi Akiva and his faith in Bar-Kochba.

That positive public profile, says Frumin, was not overly or overtly contested either. “There were those who did not believe he was the Messiah, but they kept that to themselves,” Frumin notes. Shabtai Zvi seems to have had it made at the time.

However, this was not just an intra-Jewish occurrence. There was, apparently, great interest in the phenomenon in wider circles too. “This exhibition also looks at how this was all perceived in a broader European context, among Christians. For them, particularly for Protestants, this was a big deal. They related to it as a precursor to the Second Coming [of Jesus Christ].”

Feldman Samet also dug into yesteryear current affairs coverage, and the show includes excerpts of journalistic views of Shabtai Zvi and the waves his claims made across the international scene. He certainly sparked interest, leapfrogging geographic, cultural, and societal boundaries. Some heralded his emergence as the harbinger of the long-awaited redemption, but it also provoked controversy. With printing technology now readily available in the Ottoman Empire, news of his shenanigans rippled far and wide.

But this wasn’t just a juicy gossip tidbit. In some quarters, Shabtai Zvi was viewed with deep suspicion, and even evoked fear. “There were those who believed an army of 300,000 Jews was going to march on Mecca and topple Islam. That appears in the media of the day,” Frumin states.

Regardless of their personal, political, or religious view of the man, it seems that Shabtai Zvi possessed all the requisite attributes for making a splash. There are several of his portraits dotted around the exhibition which, if even somewhat accurate, indicate he was a handsome fellow with almost palpable presence. Judging by those images, it is easy to see why so many fell under his sway.

“Descriptions of the time indicate that not only did he have an unprecedented appearance, they [also] said he looked divinely angelic, and that it was impossible to look straight at his face because it was incandescent,” Frumin says.

He notes that was an across-the-board reaction. “People who did not believe in him went to meet him and argue with him, but went away with a powerful impression of the man. There was something extraordinary about him.”

Theatrical takes

That found its way into more contemporary folklore and artistic renditions. Take for example, the monochrome photograph of Shimon Finkel, one of the powerhouses – leading actor and later director – of the Habima Theatre, dressed up for his part as Shabtai Zvi in a 1926 production. He has a demonic, hypnotic look in his eyes as he stares straight at the camera.

Some of the 17th-century messianic claimant’s magnetism also found its way into later plastic artistic domains, as exemplified by Reuven Rubin’s watercolor and gouache take on the 1926 staged portrayal of the man. The highly stylized portrait imparts a powerful sense of some psychological and emotional undercurrent coursing through his inner dynamics. Rubin proffers him as a mesmerizing dandyish-looking character who seems irresistible.

Artists and everyday folks were charmed by Shabtai Zvi from the off. An engraving from Venice in June 1665, during his lifetime, was inserted in the cover of the Madda Ahavah Zmanim (Science, Love, Times) legal publication by Maimonides, showing him astride a lion.

That feeds off the idea that the Messiah would cross the mythical Sambation River, beyond which the ten lost tribes are believed to have been exiled, and aligns with the messianic vision marketed by Nathan of Gaza. The figure’s inclusion in a literary item of such importance reflects the intensity of the messianic awakening at the time.

Naturally, well before the advent of photography and rapid means of communication, the way Shabtai Zvi was unveiled to the general public was often tempered by the artist’s or publisher’s personal taste and opinion of the man and how he went about his business.

“In the European press, Shabtai Zvi sometimes looks like a figure from a Rembrandt print. Other times – and this is very interesting – he looks like one of the pilgrims who went to North America. That is how authoritative figures looked according to the conceptual approach of the English-speaking Protestant world.”

The messianic pretender’s image and cultural backdrop underwent some tweaking here and there, to bring it all more into line with local sensibilities. That, presumably, helped to promulgate the concept and make it more user-friendly for local consumption. That happened in 17th-century Britain.

“After Charles I was deposed, in Commonwealth England, James Naylor and his disciples reenacted Jesus’ triumphal arrival in Jerusalem whereby Naylor entered Bristol [in southwest England],” Frumin explains. Naylor was an English Quaker leader and a member of the Valiant Sixty group of Quaker preachers and missionaries. His representation of the biblical event set off shockwaves across the country, and he was tried, convicted of blasphemy, and harshly dealt with by the legal system.

The parallels between the English and Ottoman figures were brought to prominence by the media. “In one of the English newspapers there is a portrait of Shabtai Zvi with another person, James Naylor. He was a radical Quaker. He was considered to have attributes of a prophet, an extraordinary character,” Frumin observes.

“Most of the Quakers thought it was too radical an act. That happened five years before Shabtai Zvi’s proclamation as the Messiah, and there was no connection between the two, but they were still paired together in the press.”

Frumin says the Ottoman authorities allowed ethnic minorities a great deal of independence, as long as they didn’t overstep the mark. “When the whole business of Shabtai Zvi erupted – it was actually just a short passage of time, of around 18 months – the authorities suddenly viewed it as a political threat. They [members of the messianic group] talked about bringing the regime down.”

From the point of view of the powers that be, there was something fundamentally disturbing about the group’s dynamics. “Ottoman society was generally based on various hierarchies, but the Sabbatean movement grew from the base,” Frumin notes. “Because of that, the establishment struggled to deal with it.”

That included the Jewish community. “The rabbis didn’t know what to do about it. The people who opposed the Sabbatean movement didn’t know what to do with it either. That’s why they didn’t react when the messianic movement of the time was at its zenith.”

It wasn’t only about the lead figure. There was a ripple effect that spread all over. “There is a description by the Sabbatean movement in [Shabtai Zvi’s birthplace of] Izmir that says there were in excess of 150 seers there, who had visions.” That crossed gender and age divides. “They included men, women, and children.”

Apparently that was par for the religious course, regardless of denomination. “It was the same with radical Protestant groups then. Hierarchies were done away with.”

Shabtai Zvi eventually triggered the ire of the folks with the legal and judicial punch. He was duly taken to court, was handed a prison sentence, and even converted to Islam in order to escape the death penalty. “That was probably not a genuine conversion, as he maintained his Jewish practices at the same time,” Frumin says.

There was, for Shabtai Zvi, reason to his method. “He explained that he converted to Islam because that is what God demanded of him. Many of his followers still related to him as a Jew and they believed he would be rediscovered [as the Messiah].”

Whatever his motives as a faux claimant, Shabtai Zvi remains a colorful juncture in the Jewish timeline and, in fact, was not just consigned to the history books. Even today, there continues to be interest in his ideas and vision.

One of the exhibition’s textual slots notes that descendants of the Sabbatean community have openly explored their familial and communal past. It seems it is now perfectly acceptable to dig into the false prophet’s tale and bring it into the light of the 21st century.

“The shift from concealment, and at times erasure, to inquiry, interpretation, and a renewed articulation of this heritage has generated varied perspectives on the meaning of Sabbatean origins today,” says Frumin. “Through personal journey, family memory, and research, they add a contemporary layer to the transformation of Shabtai Zvi’s figure and to the phenomena that developed in his wake.”

That is, indeed, a fascinating slant, and the more modern-day route to the legendary figure is well represented in the exhibition. A Sabbatean genealogical tree of the Osman Celebi family, for example, documents the family of Livorno-born Celebi that traces its origins back to the 17th century, when Shabtai Zvi was alive.

The document has over 250 names, family photographs, as well as a letter from a father to his son underscoring the importance of preserving the family lineage and keeping its memory alive.

That sounds like a time-honored Jewish practice, as Jews have ebbed and flowed around the world and across the ages.