Since Christianity’s earliest days, groups have emerged rooted in apocalyptic or millennial faith—an expectation that Christ will soon return to end this “evil order” and usher in a new world of supreme happiness and goodness.
The Christian hope of Christ’s immediate return took hold in the Church’s infancy. The Old Testament’s Book of Daniel, alongside non-canonical works like the Assumption of Moses and the Books of Enoch, shaped the thought-world of early Christians. In later generations, this apocalyptic lens focused on Daniel and the Book of Revelation. A common core unites these views: history follows a steady path toward a climactic divine act, soon to come, where God will destroy the current system and establish a better one.
History, in this view, is a battle between good and evil, with good faltering. Believers feel this personally—through persecution, deprivation, or moral outrage—and see evil’s reign as unstoppable without God’s intervention to eradicate it. God is deeply involved, forming a faithful remnant loyal to Him, poised to crush evil’s forces.
For believers, history is personal and internalized, centered on themselves and their elite group, unrecognized by a dismissive society. As God’s expected action nears, normal life fades in importance, and preparation for the coming event takes over. Apocalyptic groups have long stirred controversy, often fixated on pinpointing Christ’s return.
In the early 1800s, Edward Irving, founder of the Catholic Apostolic Church, proclaimed the Second Coming in England, setting 1864 as the date. Dr. Joseph Wolff, a converted Jew, lectured across England and the U.S. on the same theme, both spurred by the French Revolution and Napoleon. Joseph Smith, Mormonism’s founder, established successive locales as God’s kingdom headquarters until his death. Yet it was a humble New York farmer who launched America’s most enduring Adventist movement.
William Miller, a Baptist layman, ignited Adventism in 1830s New York, convinced the world’s end was near and compelled to warn others. Welcomed as a speaker in various churches, his principles still resonate with many. Miller believed he’d cracked the end-times chronology, interpreting “day” as “year” in prophetic texts. He keyed on Daniel 8:14—“unto 2,300 days, then shall the sanctuary be cleansed”—and Daniel 9:24—“Seventy weeks are determined upon thy people to make an end of sins.” He pegged the 70 weeks (490 years) as ending in 33 AD at Jesus’ crucifixion.
From there, Miller worked backward to 457 BC—the decree to Ezra to restore Jerusalem’s law and people—as the starting point. Since the 70 weeks were part of the 2,300 days, he calculated the sanctuary’s cleansing for 1843, bolstered by other figures aligning with that year. Miller and his followers wove a history from Revelation and Daniel, publishing their findings. As the movement swelled, opposition grew—churches once open to Miller shut their doors, and reports surfaced of ministers and laymen expelled for their views.
In 1843, Miller fixed a precise date for the Second Coming. It passed without event, prompting a second date—also a bust. Around the first prediction, a surprise comet in February 1843, alongside other odd phenomena, fueled excitement and drew eyes to Miller’s claims. With about 50,000 followers, the second failure—dubbed “The Great Disappointment”—didn’t shake most. Miller stayed confident in Christ’s imminent return but opposed further date-setting. Charles Fitch pushed for independent churches, against Miller’s wishes.
Emerging Adventist churches leaned on Baptist theology—their main root—agreeing on doctrines like the Bible, God, Christ, and ordinances (not sacraments), with immersion baptism and foot washing reflecting Baptist ties. Sabbatarianism came straight from Seventh-Day Baptists. Adventists, though, outstripped Baptists in Second Coming speculation and rejected innate human immortality.
Ethically, Adventists split two ways. Sabbath acceptance bred an Old Testament focus—some groups adopted Jewish holidays and dietary laws. The Bible Sabbath Association, formed in 1945 as a counter to the Lord’s Day Alliance, promotes Sabbath-keeping and lists Sabbath-observing groups. Conversely, many Adventists joined pre-Civil War social crusades, vocally opposing slavery and war. Pacifism endures, notably in Jehovah’s Witnesses’ draft refusal, an Adventist legacy.
No one’s sure who first made God’s name a doctrinal flashpoint, but by the 1920s, the International Bible Students—en route to becoming Jehovah’s Witnesses—pushed it hard. Twentieth-century scholars pegged “Yahweh” as the likely pronunciation of “YHWH,” the Hebrew spelling of God’s name. By the mid-1930s, Church of God (Seventh-Day) members and ministers began using and advocating the “sacred name.” In the 1940s, assemblies formed, splitting over the name’s exact spelling and sound, often calling local gatherings “assemblies”—a direct nod to the Greek “ecclesia.”
After a failed Second Coming prediction, groups face choices: disband and revert to normalcy; claim a spiritual, not physical, fulfillment; or set a new date. Charles Taze Russell’s Bible Students, post-Miller, took the latter path, evolving into Jehovah’s Witnesses with fresh timelines.
Influenced by Adventists, British Israelism emerged in America after World War I, rejecting the Trinity and emphasizing the Sacred Name and Sabbath. It grew steadily into the 1940s, with a 1970s resurgence via the Identity Movement. Stemming from 1700s English quests to trace the ten lost tribes of Israel—often linked to Anglo-Saxons—it posits their natural and religious superiority, drawing racist undertones in the U.S.
Herbert W. Armstrong, a Church of God radio minister, wove British Israelism into his Worldwide Church of God, introducing millions to it. Now claiming around 100,000 members, it’s the most successful such group ever.
Lately, British Israelism has tangled with racist outfits like the Ku Klux Klan, neo-Nazis, and the Christian Nationalist Crusade. The “Identity Movement” labels modern white people as literal descendants of ancient Israelites, sparking controversy over theology, racism, and violent acts—like those tied to the Church, the Sword, and the Arm of the Lord (C.S.A.), Posse Comitatus, the Order, and the Church of Jesus Christ Christian, Aryan Nations.
Acknowledgment: I’d like to thank Grok, an AI by xAI, for helping me draft and refine this page. The final edits and perspective are my own.
Hellenism, the spread of Greek culture after Alexander the Great (336–323 BCE), blended Greek philosophy with local traditions, fostering religious syncretism and rational thought. Without it, Christianity and Gnosticism wouldn’t have emerged as known. Both drew from Hellenistic ideas, like Platonism, evolving in parallel with shared roots but clashing visions.
Christianity used Hellenistic concepts, such as the Logos and allegorical interpretation, to spread its message of salvation through faith in a good God, embracing creation. Gnosticism, rooted in Hellenistic dualism, saw the material world as flawed, created by a demiurge, and sought liberation through secret knowledge (gnosis), as explored in Elaine Pagels’ work. While both valued spiritual salvation, they diverged: Christianity rejected Gnosticism’s view of an evil world and Docetism, affirming one God and communal faith. Born in Hellenism’s crucible, their ties to Jewish origins and conflicts shaped early religious thought. Christianity engaged the Greco-Roman world, while Gnosticism challenged it, defining their dynamic tension.
The following revised and update 4/10/2025.
I cover Judaism, Christianity, Hellenism, Zoroastrianism, and their offshoots—valuable yet flawed traditions. Each offers insights and pitfalls; the choice is yours. Below are key resources:
