“No more Chassidic reggae superstar,” the musical artist Matisyahu posted on his website in 2011 with a photo of his new look: beardless and without a yarmulke.

He had sported both since the mid-2000s, after graduating from Hadar Hatorah, a Chabad yeshiva aimed toward men transitioning from a secular life to a more observant one. With his Chabad look gone, he became suddenly unrecognizable from the figure on the covers of his albums spanning the mid to late-2000s, which featured hits such as “King Without a Crown” and “One Day.”

His new look, with coiffed, silver hair and pronounced cheekbones, shocked some fans, but Matisyahu was resolved. “Sorry folks, all you get is me,” he wrote. “I am reclaiming myself.”

Now, fans may be surprised to learn that Matisyahu’s outward expression of his spiritual path mattered more than he let on. On a recent episode of the Ami’s House podcast, he discussed his reaction to the attack on Israel by Hamas on Oct. 7, noting that his pintele Yid — his “Jewish spark” — was awakened.

“Over the years, [being Jewish] became less central to me,” he said, “And right now it’s come back full force.” His awakening after Oct. 7, he said, “just smacked me in the face.”

While his earlier transformation may have seemed dramatic, Matisyahu’s Jewishness, even during his religious days, was more nuanced than what was outwardly visible. 

While initially drawn to the Chabad movement, by 2007 he was seeking some distance from it. “I live in Crown Heights but I daven in Borough Park, in Karlin,” Matisyahu told the NY Jewish Week at the time. He explained that he’d become attracted to the Karlin-Stolin style of prayer. “I’m really saying the words, trying to break through. To me that really fits with the essence of what the Chassidic movement was really about.”

It was during this period, when he drew nearer to Karlin, that he first underwent one subtle, outward transformation: he grew out his payos, the prominent sidelocks, often long and tightly curled, sported by members of many Hasidic communities — though, notably, not Chabad. The change went mostly unnoticed, but it suggested a meaningful departure from his Chabad identity.

Then came 2011, and all of it — beard, yarmulke, fedora, and payos — was gone. 

At the time, reactions from his fans were polarized. Some criticized him for his change, though others supported the message he appeared to convey: it isn’t your physical appearance that grants you grace, but your deeds. Some commenters on his website even identified with his journey. “I became more religious/observant,” one commenter wrote, “then returned to my true self.” Others, still, were confused, questioning whether Matisyahu still considered himself Jewish. 

By Matisyahu’s own account, this new face was not really new but the person he was all along, covered in a mask of what he found to be a “need for rules.” He was not making sudden spiritual decisions, he said. Rather, it was the media that “made it seem like I just woke up and said Chabad is not for me, but it’s been a process for the last four years.”

Even after he stopped being outwardly religious, Judaism continued to play a role in his artistic expression. Continuing under the name Matisyahu — rather than Matthew, as he was known prior to becoming religious — he released the song “Happy Hanukkah” in 2012, an energetic holiday single that combines electronic sounds with a reggae rhythm, parsing lyrical themes of the Festival of Lights with those of Rastafarianism.

In subsequent years, his attachment to Judaism would still come through periodically. One example was in early 2020, when he visited Crown Heights, still retaining his secular look, but now with long locks flowing from under his beanie. 

“You’re in Chabad now?” asked someone who filmed him during his visit.

“Always,” Matisyahu said. “Chabad is here.” He tapped his chest. “Chabad doesn’t leave.”

During Hanukkah later that year, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, he did a series of menorah-lighting videos in which he sang the prayers Chabad-style over mellow, dub-like instrumentals, his hair once again trimmed down.

With his most recent awakening, however, Matisyahu expressed a real shift from his previous thinking.

“I literally came back from walking the dog,” he said in his recent podcast appearance, “and I said to my wife, ‘I think I’m gonna shave my head, keep my payos, and grow my beard back and start wearing a yarmulke.’”

He had not made those changes by the time of the interview — and it wasn’t clear how serious he was. But his message was unmistakable: his Jewish identity was strong. Strong enough to reconsider — if only for a fleeting moment — that an outward expression of Jewishness still matters. 

With antisemitism rising recently, many Jews have become fearful of wearing a kippah or other outward expressions of Jewish identity. With his remarks, Matisyahu may have offered a welcome gesture of encouragement and solidarity.

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