By the end of the second decade of the seventh century, Muhammad’s world was unraveling. His uncle Abu Talib, the political shield that had kept Meccan hands off him, was failing. Khadija, the wealthy widow who had bankrolled his life and propped up his prophetic claims, was nearing the end of her strength. The boycott years had strained his clan and frayed his alliances. The Satanic Verses scandal had exposed his willingness to compromise with idolatry and then blame Satan for his own words. The propagandistic story of relentless “persecution” in Mecca hides a simple reality: by 619 C.E., he was a man losing control of his environment and searching desperately for a new way forward.

This chapter traces that crisis from three angles. Spiritually, we see Muhammad oscillating between humiliation and grand fantasy: driven out and pelted with stones at Ta’if, then suddenly claiming a magical night journey through the heavens. Psychologically, we see a pattern of depression, wounded pride, and compensating illusions of greatness. Morally, we see a man moving deeper into sexual entitlement—marrying an older widow to stabilize his household, then binding himself to the six-year-old daughter of his closest ally, and later receiving a slave-girl as a concubine. Politically, we see him carefully preparing the “escape” north to Yathrib (Medina), not merely to survive, but to build a base for war.

In these years, the mask slips even further. The man who once tried to appease Meccan idols now turns his eyes toward a new city, a new alliance, and a new level of control. The Night Journey (Isra and Miraj), so celebrated in Islamic tradition, did not bring him closer to Jehovah. It gave him a religious story that elevated his status above all earlier prophets and set the stage for a system of legal worship that bypassed Christ and the Scriptures entirely.

Ta’if: Stoned by Children, Rejected by All

The death of Abu Talib and Khadija around 619 has already been mentioned in an earlier chapter. Together their passing cut away Muhammad’s two great supports. Abu Talib’s authority had sheltered him in Mecca’s tribal world; Khadija’s wealth had sheltered him from poverty and gave him a loyal inner circle. Without them, he was both politically exposed and economically diminished. Islamic tradition calls this period “the Year of Sorrow.” It could more accurately be called “the Year of Desperation.”

With Meccan opposition hardened and his protection weakened, Muhammad looked for a new base. The nearby town of Ta’if, about sixty miles southeast, offered possibilities. It was an agricultural center with its own idols and ruling families. If he could win its leaders, he might gain both a haven and leverage against Mecca. The journey to Ta’if was not the move of a contented prophet; it was the move of a man shopping for a better platform.

According to the earliest reports, he met with the main chiefs of Ta’if and presented his message. Their response was not merely indifferent; it was contemptuous. They saw no reason to exchange their traditional gods for a preacher whose own city had not embraced him. They mocked him to his face, questioned why Jehovah (whom he called “Allah”) would choose such a man, and refused him any hospitality or protection.

The humiliation did not end with words. The leaders allegedly stirred up youths and rabble to drive him out. As he walked through the streets and out of the town, they pelted him with stones, hitting his feet and legs until he bled. The tradition that children were among his attackers underscores how low his status had sunk: he could be pelted and chased by the least honored of society because its leaders had publicly rejected him.

From a biblical perspective, the episode at Ta’if is revealing. When Jehovah’s true prophets were rejected, they appealed to Him and continued speaking His Word. Their grief deepened their dependence on Him. Jesus Himself was despised and rejected by men, but He did not respond by grasping after earthly power or weaving fantasies to inflate His own status. He set His face toward the cross, not toward seizing control over a city.

Muhammad’s response shows a different heart. Islamic sources preserve a prayer in which he pours out self-pity, complaining that he has become weak and despised, asking whether God has abandoned him. There is no confession of sin, no turning to the Torah or Gospel, no acknowledgment that his earlier compromise with idolatry disqualified him as a spokesman for the one true God. There is only wounded pride wrapped in pious language.

Ta’if is therefore not a noble failure in the life of a righteous prophet. It is a moment when a self-appointed messenger discovered that another town saw through his pretensions just as Mecca had done. The stoning by children symbolized what was happening inside his mind: the grand image he had of himself was being battered by reality. In the months that followed, his “revelations” and stories would compensate for that humiliation by lifting him up, at least in his own fantasies, above Moses, Jesus, and every prophet who had gone before.

The Jinni Servants and the Night Flight Fantasy

Between the fiasco at Ta’if and the final move to Medina, the sources place two clusters of stories that transformed Muhammad’s image among his followers: the tales of jinn who allegedly accepted his recitations, and the account of the Night Journey (Isra and Miraj). Both address the same problem. If humans—especially powerful humans—were rejecting him, he needed a way to claim that the unseen world recognized his authority even when people did not.

The reports about jinn fit neatly into this gap. One set of traditions says that as he traveled back from Ta’if, disheartened and wounded, a group of jinn overheard him reciting parts of the Qur’an in the night and were so impressed that they converted on the spot. Another strand places this event near Mecca, with jinn gathering like an invisible audience. Either way, the message is identical: even if the people of Ta’if rejected him, the invisible spirits accepted him.

Given his earlier history of demonic night terrors and his lifelong fear of jinn, these stories are striking. Instead of treating them as dangerous deceivers, he now casts some of them as his listeners and servants. Later, an entire sura (“The Jinn”) will depict them gathering to hear his recitation and then returning to their communities to spread his message. In effect, when human acceptance faltered, he claimed a shadow congregation of spirits to fill the gap.

From Scripture we know that demons do indeed acknowledge that Jesus is the Son of God, but always in fear, always constrained by His authority, and never as willing disciples. They are not honored messengers; they are bound rebels awaiting judgment. Yet in Muhammad’s narrative, jinn become almost like another people group to be invited into Islam. The line between holy angels and fallen spirits blurs badly. A man who earlier could not tell demonic oppression from angelic visitation now uses jinn “belief” as another credential.

The Night Journey and Ascension (Isra and Miraj) elevate this pattern. The standard story says that, on a single night, Muhammad was transported from the Sacred Mosque in Mecca to the “farthest mosque,” which Muslim tradition identifies with Jerusalem, riding a mystical beast called Buraq. From there, he ascended through the seven heavens, meeting various prophets at each level—Adam, John, Jesus, Joseph, Idris, Aaron, Moses, and Abraham—before entering the presence of Allah Himself.

Different strands of Islamic tradition disagree on crucial details. Some insist it was a bodily journey; others call it a dream. Some describe physical signs left behind; others do not. Early Muslims themselves debated whether he was awake or asleep. The contradictions reveal what this story really is: a growing legend designed to answer humiliation with unparalleled spiritual prestige.

Yet the theological message is always the same. By this account, Muhammad is taken above all prophets, receives direct instructions, and comes down as the one who has ascended beyond even Moses. The earliest Jewish and Christian readers would have recognized elements borrowed from apocryphal literature, mystical “heavenly ascent” tales, and perhaps from hearsay about Paul being caught up to the third heaven. But the crucial difference is that Paul refused to build his authority on such visions. He pointed constantly back to the Gospel of Christ crucified and risen, grounded in the already given Scriptures. Muhammad, by contrast, used the Night Journey as a central pillar of his importance.

The Bible makes clear that the one true mediator between Jehovah and humans is Jesus Christ, who truly entered heaven in His resurrected body, presented His own blood, and sat down at the right hand of God. There is no need for a new Arabian visionary to ride a heavenly animal and negotiate new religious regulations. The Night Journey is not a supplement to the Gospel; it is a rival story that seeks to displace the unique work of Christ.

When we place the jinn narratives and the Miraj together, a pattern emerges. Right after severe public rejection, Muhammad’s stories suddenly elevate his status in the unseen realm. Spirits gather to hear him; heavens open to receive him. The man stoned by children in Ta’if reappears in his own preaching as the one who walks among angels and receives direct orders from the throne of Allah. This is not the humility of a broken servant of Jehovah. It is the psychological compensation of a man grasping for significance after being humbled on earth.

Bargaining with Allah: Reducing Prayers from 50 to 5

One detail in the Miraj story is so revealing that even many Muslims feel uneasy when they consider its implications. According to the standard tradition, during his ascent Muhammad received a command from Allah: his followers were to perform fifty prayers every day. On his way back down, he met Moses, who asked what obligation had been imposed on his community. When Muhammad answered “fifty prayers,” Moses allegedly told him, in effect, “Your people will not be able to bear that; I know people, and you should ask for a reduction.”

Muhammad then supposedly went back and forth between Allah and Moses multiple times. Each time he asked Allah to reduce the number of prayers; each time Allah lowered it by a certain amount. Moses repeatedly urged him to request further reductions, until the daily obligation reached five prayers. Even then, Muhammad in the story hesitates, but Moses encourages one more request. At that point, according to the tradition, Allah says that five prayers will remain, but the reward will be counted as if they were fifty.

This scene, if taken seriously, is disastrous for any claim that Muhammad’s god is Jehovah.

First, it portrays Allah as issuing a command with no realistic sense of human capacity, then needing a former prophet (Moses) to correct Him. The God of the Bible never learns from His creatures. He knows our frame; He remembers that we are dust. He does not rashly impose a crippling burden and then allow Himself to be bargained down like a tribal chieftain making a deal.

Second, it makes Moses wiser and more compassionate than Allah. Moses, in this story, is the one who understands what normal men can endure. He is the one who presses for mercy. Allah appears distant, abstract, and unconcerned until pushed. That reverses the biblical pattern, where Jehovah is the One who proactively limits burdens and shows compassion, while human leaders often fail to reflect His kindness.

Third, it turns prayer into a negotiated legal quota. Instead of prayer as a living relationship with the Father through Christ, we are given a mechanical schedule: five times, at set hours, backed by the threat of guilt if one is missed. The story even turns “mercy” into an accounting trick: the believers supposedly do five prayers, but Allah counts them as fifty. This is not grace. It is a numerical bargain.

Fourth, the entire episode arises, within the narrative, not from concern for sin and redemption, but from concern for ritual performance. There is no cross, no atonement, no resurrection. A man who has just endured major rejection is whisked into heaven, haggles over the number of daily prayers, and comes back with a legal structure that has nothing to do with the real problem of the human heart.

For Muhammad’s followers, this story gave their daily schedule a mythic background. Five times a day, they could imagine themselves obeying a command hammered out in heavenly negotiation. For Christians, it is tragic. The story shows a god who behaves like a fallible chief, a prophet who acts like a crafty bargainer, and a law that enslaves without saving. It is exactly what we would expect if a man, shaken by humiliation, wanted to centralize his control over his followers’ time and bodies. If your prophet tells you when to stand, bend, kneel, and recite, every day, he owns your life in a way no mere preacher could.

When we compare this to Christ’s invitation—“Come to Me, all who are toiling and loaded down, and I will refresh you”—the contrast is absolute. The Night Journey’s bargaining over prayers exposes the human origin of Muhammad’s system. It is religious burden dressed up as heavenly revelation.

Marriage to Sawda and Engagement to Six-Year-Old Aisha

In the midst of this spiritual and psychological turbulence, Muhammad’s domestic life was also being reconfigured. Khadija’s death had left a gap. He had lost the woman who managed his household and who first declared his horrifying cave experiences to be prophetic rather than demonic. He now needed both practical help and a new set of alliances.

His marriage to Sawda bint Zam‘a fits this need. Sawda was an older widow, one of the early converts. By marrying her, Muhammad ensured that his household had a mature woman to oversee daily affairs. From a distance, this union can look modest and even sacrificial: a man over fifty taking a widowed believer as his wife. Muslim apologists often highlight Sawda as proof of his supposed compassion.

But this picture must be set beside what he did next. During this same period, he arranged a marriage contract with Aisha, the young daughter of Abu Bakr. The earliest and most reliable Islamic reports are explicit: she was about six years old at the time of betrothal, and the marriage would be consummated later, when she was about nine, after the move to Medina, while Muhammad was in his early fifties.

Engagement to a six-year-old girl is not a neutral cultural variation. Even in that time, some voices within Arab society found it striking enough to comment. Muhammad’s own servant later remembered her playing with dolls, clearly prepubescent, when he consummated the marriage. Revelation was then used to reinforce her status and to silence criticism, with later verses describing her father Abu Bakr as the Prophet’s closest companion and Aisha as the “mother of the believers.”

We must say plainly what many try to evade. A middle-aged man binding himself to a six-year-old girl is predatory. Waiting until she is nine to consummate the relationship does not erase the nature of the act. It is exploitation of a child whose consent, in any meaningful sense, is impossible. Abu Bakr’s agreement to the match also shows how deeply his own judgment had been bent by loyalty and ambition. Giving his daughter to Muhammad was not only a family choice; it was a political investment.

This is the same man whom Muslims insist was protected from major sin, uniquely guided by heaven, and presented as a model for all time. But a “model” who finds it acceptable to desire, claim, and later sleep with a girl still close to the age where she plays with toys is not a model given by Jehovah. He is a warning.

Apologists often say, “In that culture, such marriages were normal.” Yet this does not make them righteous. In many cultures, child sacrifice was “normal.” The Bible repeatedly shows Jehovah condemning deeply ingrained cultural sins. He does not excuse them because “everyone does it.” He calls His people to a higher standard that reflects His character. If Muhammad had been Jehovah’s prophet, he would have confronted the exploitation of children, not embodied it.

When we put Sawda and Aisha together, the pattern is clear. The older widow provided stability and cover; the child bride provided pleasure and a strengthened tie to Abu Bakr. This is not the behavior of a man whose heart is being purified by the Holy Spirit. It is the behavior of a polygamous leader learning that he can reshape his household according to his desires and call it obedience to Allah.

The Slave-Girl Mariya and Rising Sexual Entitlement

Strictly speaking, the slave-girl Mariya al-Qibtiyya would not enter Muhammad’s household until several years later, after the move to Medina, when a ruler from Egypt sent her as part of a diplomatic gift. Chronologically, she belongs around 628 C.E., not in 619–622. So why mention her here?

Because the years we are examining are precisely the years when the pattern that made Mariya’s treatment possible was taking shape. By the time she arrived, Muhammad had already built for himself a mental world in which his desires, especially his sexual desires, could be baptized as revelation.

During these late Meccan and early Medinan years, several strands intertwined. He had learned that “revelation” could be used to erase past mistakes (as with the Satanic Verses) and to impose ritual burdens (as with the five prayers). He had already blurred the lines of marriage by taking a child bride and wrapping that decision in prophetic authority. He had begun to treat obedience to his personal wishes as obedience to God.

When Mariya eventually arrived—a Coptic Christian girl, enslaved and sent as a political gift—Muhammad did not treat her as a sister in need of liberation through Christ. He treated her as his concubine. She did not receive the title of “wife” like Aisha or Sawda. She remained, in Islamic sources, al-jariya, the slave-girl. Yet he visited her, lay with her, and eventually caused scandal by being intimate with her in the house of one of his wives, Hafsa. When Hafsa and Aisha were angered by this, another “revelation” appeared, rebuking the wives for their jealousy and warning that if they did not submit, Allah could replace them with better women.

Surah 66 also contains a passage where Muhammad is portrayed as declaring Mariya forbidden to himself in order to placate his wives, only to have Allah correct him, telling him not to forbid what Allah has made lawful. The net effect is chilling. A situation in which a man’s sexual indulgence with his slave-girl has deeply hurt his wives is turned, by “revelation,” into a lesson about their duty to obey and about his right to enjoy what Allah allows.

The seeds of that entitlement were planted in the 619–622 period. A man who has already decided that his spiritual experiences place him above criticism, that his legal regulations carry divine weight, that his household is a microcosm of his authority, and that his sexual choices can be wrapped in verses, will find it very easy to treat a slave-girl as a gift from heaven rather than as a human being needing freedom in Christ.

From a biblical vantage point, Mariya’s story is a dark mirror of the Gospel. The Lord Jesus offered Himself for captives, calling them out of bondage to sin and Satan. Muhammad took a captive and used her for his pleasure, then used “revelation” to silence objections. The line from Aisha’s betrothal to Mariya’s exploitation is not broken. It runs through these crisis years, where every setback produced a new “word from Allah” that conveniently expanded his control.

When modern Muslims try to sanitize these episodes, they usually resort to vague statements: “He was kind; he freed slaves; he elevated women.” The documented facts show otherwise. His system allowed and sanctified slavery and polygamy. His personal choices reinforced male entitlement. That is why Mariya must be mentioned here: she embodies, later in time, the logical fruit of the mindset formed in these transitional Meccan and early Medinan years.

Plotting the Great Escape North

While visions and household reshaping occupied one side of Muhammad’s life, political maneuvering occupied the other. After the humiliation at Ta’if and the growing hostility in Mecca, he knew he needed a new base. Simply wandering as a solitary preacher would not do. He thought in terms of tribes, alliances, and armed protection.

During the pilgrimage seasons, various tribes came to Mecca. Muhammad began approaching groups from Yathrib, a town to the north later called Medina. Yathrib was plagued by feuds between its main Arab tribes, the Aws and the Khazraj, and had a significant Jewish presence. Its people were weary of constant war and open to the idea of a strong arbiter who could unify them. Muhammad saw opportunity.

The early reports speak of two main pledges at a place called al-‘Aqaba. At the first meeting, a small group from Yathrib allegedly accepted his message and promised basic support. At the second, a larger group—sometimes called the “Ansar” (helpers)—pledged not only to follow him religiously but to defend him with their weapons as they would defend their own families. In some versions, they agree to fight against all others at his command if necessary.

This was not merely an invitation to preach. It was an oath of military allegiance. Muhammad made sure they understood the seriousness of what they were promising. They in turn asked what they would receive if they died supporting him. His answer pointed not to forgiveness through Christ, but to entrance into gardens and heavenly reward.

With this pact in place, he began quietly instructing his followers in Mecca to slip out in small groups and relocate to Yathrib. He did not himself leave at once. He waited until most of his core people had gone and until the danger in Mecca had become acute with plots against his life. Only then did he make the final move, with a dramatic escape narrative that built his image as a man miraculously protected by Allah.

Islamic tradition calls this move the Hijra and treats it as pure flight from oppression. In reality, it was a calculated migration—a relocation into a city that had already agreed to accept him as lawgiver and war leader. When he arrived, he did not simply announce the Gospel and serve quietly. He built a mosque, established new legal regulations, rearranged economic relationships, and began planning raids against Meccan caravans.

The plotting of this “escape” began in the 619–622 window. It was not a last-minute idea. Muhammad’s approach to the people of Yathrib shows that he saw his message as the foundation for a new political order. He did not seek one tribe simply to shelter him while he preached repentance. He sought a town that would bind itself to him by oath, accept his arbitration over their disagreements, and follow him into conflict with his former city.

From a Christian perspective, this strategy stands in stark contrast to the pattern of the apostles. When Christians were scattered by persecution in Jerusalem, they went preaching the Word, but they did not reassemble under a single human leader as a political bloc bent on conquering their persecutors. Their “kingdom” was not of this world. Muhammad’s project was very much of this world. The Night Journey supplied the heavenly credentials; the pledges of al-‘Aqaba supplied the earthly muscle.

By the end of this period, everything had changed. The humiliated preacher of Mecca was poised to become the ruler of Yathrib. The man once crushed by a presence in a cave now claimed to have negotiated directly with the heavenly throne. The restless widower of Mecca now had an older wife, a child bride promised to him, and a mindset ready to claim more. The mental crisis of 619–622 did not soften him. It hardened him into a man who believed that his experiences and desires bore divine authority—and who was ready to use armed followers to enforce that belief.

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