Tasdīq and Shawq: Affirming Faith and Longing for the Divine

As we move through the season of al-Isrāʾ wa-al-Miʿrāj, Muslims naturally return to one of the most extraordinary moments in the life of the Prophet ﷺ. Yet the lasting power of this event is not found only in its details, but in the questions it raises for faith itself. Al-Isrāʾ confronts every generation with the same challenge the Quraysh faced in Makkah: what is faith when it is tested at the edge of what people call “possible”? The question al-Isrāʾ poses is not, “Could this happen?” It is, “What kind of heart would be ready to believe it?”

When the Prophet ﷺ described what Allah had shown him, the public reaction in Makkah was not neutral curiosity. It was ridicule and dismissal. It was the familiar tone of people who had already decided that the world is a closed system: “We know what can happen. We know what cannot.” Yet Allah placed, in that very moment, a different kind of witness in the community, not a witness who had seen the journey, but a witness who understood how truth works. That witness was Abū Bakr, and it was in this moment that he became al-Ṣiddīq.

To speak about Abū Bakr’s tasdīq in a serious Sunni way, we must avoid two mistakes. One is to present it as irrational, as though Islam asks us to shut down the mind and simply leap. The other is to shrink faith into modern “reasonableness,” as though belief must always pass through whatever feels plausible to our habits and assumptions. The Sunni tradition, especially as emphasized in the Ḥanbalī school, preserves a simple and protective distinction: what is rationally impossible is rejected, while what is rationally possible is accepted, even if it is extraordinary. A miracle does not break reason. It breaks routine. It does not require belief in contradiction. It requires acknowledging that the Creator is not bound by the normal patterns of His creation.

This is why Abū Bakr’s response is so illuminating. He did not respond like someone who despised rational thought. He responded like someone who had already completed the most important moral and rational work of his life: establishing the truthfulness of the Messenger ﷺ. Abū Bakr did not encounter al-Isrāʾ as a random claim floating in the air. He encountered it as a report coming from a source already proven true through years of close companionship, consistent character, and clear signs of prophethood. If the greatest claim, that a human being was receiving revelation from Allah, had already been settled in his heart, then what followed it, so long as it involved no rational impossibility, required no hesitation. He could have retraced the logic step by step: Allah is omnipotent, prophethood is real, miracles are possible. But he did not need to restart that process in the moment. This was not laziness. It was stability. When the foundation is firm, the building does not shake every time someone throws a pebble.

Even the environment in which Abū Bakr lived helps us understand his readiness. Arabia at the time was not spiritually empty. Jewish and Christian communities existed in and around the region. Inherited scripture circulated. Stories of a coming prophet were known. The very category of “prophet” was familiar. The question in Makkah was not whether a prophet could come, but who that prophet would be. Abū Bakr was already primed by his world to recognize prophethood as a real possibility. He was then uniquely positioned, through his close relationship with the Prophet ﷺ, to recognize who he truly was. It is also often mentioned that Abū Bakr was not known for idol worship and that his nature recoiled from the incoherence of shirk. While such points should not be exaggerated beyond reliable evidence, the broader truth remains clear: he was a serious man with a refined disposition, not easily impressed by falsehood. A heart trained to bow to falsehood finds it harder to stand upright for truth. A heart that is not content with idols finds it easier to accept revelation.

Still, we should avoid another oversimplification: that Abū Bakr believed simply because he knew the Prophet ﷺ, while the Quraysh did not. The Prophet ﷺ was not a stranger to Makkah. His honesty, lineage, and consistency were widely known. And that is precisely why this moment becomes a mirror of the human heart. Familiarity alone did not produce faith. The Quraysh knew him socially, but they evaluated his message through a different lens: power, status, threat, and cost. They asked, “What will this take from us?” Abū Bakr asked a different question: “Is he truthful?” They stood before the same sun, yet one set of eyes saw only glare, and the other saw daylight.

Here we must speak about guidance with balance. We avoid fatalism, as though Allah guides without wisdom and human beings bear no responsibility. And we avoid the opposite error, as though faith is merely the product of intelligence or clever reasoning. Guidance is a gift from Allah, but it meets hearts that are humble, honest with themselves, and ready to submit when the truth becomes clear. Abū Bakr was guided, but not at random. His heart was already facing the truth. Guidance crowned that readiness. It did not replace it. The Quraysh were not incapable of belief. They were resistant to submission. That is a moral and spiritual difference, not merely an informational one.

This brings us to the heart of what tasdīq truly is, and why al-Isrāʾ revealed a rank rather than merely producing an opinion. Tasdīq is not blind belief, emotional optimism, or the surrender of the intellect. Tasdīq is the heart standing with revelation after the truthfulness of its source has been established. It is trusting the Messenger ﷺ not because a particular report feels comfortable, but because the Messenger is known to be true. This is why Abū Bakr did not say, “That sounds reasonable,” or “I have heard something like that,” or “Perhaps one day science will explain it.” His faith did not rest on plausibility checks. It rested on the Prophet ﷺ. And when that trust was tested and revealed, he became al-Ṣiddīq.

Ḥanbalī scholars add an important clarification that can be stated simply. Tasdīq is not identical in every heart. It differs in depth. The scholars speak of īmān increasing and decreasing in the heart, and they connect that increase to tasdīq. In one sense, recognizing a truth as true is stable. But in another sense, certainty grows through proofs, details, and repeated reinforcement. One person knows the Prophet ﷺ from a single doorway. Another knows him from many. One notices the signs of Allah occasionally. Another begins to see them everywhere. As knowledge deepens, tasdīq deepens. And as tasdīq deepens, the heart becomes harder to shake.

This helps us understand Abū Bakr more clearly. His tasdīq was not simply “more belief.” It was belief with greater depth and reinforcement. His recognition of the Prophet ﷺ had been strengthened from many directions: years of companionship, consistent character, wisdom in speech, protection from obvious falsehood, and finally revelation itself. Al-Isrāʾ did not create that faith. It revealed it. And this becomes the lesson for us. If we want a faith that does not collapse when tested, the path is not chasing dramatic moments. The path is knowing the Messenger ﷺ more deeply: learning his life, understanding his message, and appreciating why the scholars consistently say that īmān grows with maʿrifah.

From here, faith naturally moves forward. Faith is not meant to remain frozen. Once the heart stabilizes upon truth, it begins to yearn. Certainty does not only silence doubt. It awakens desire. The believer is not a machine that produces assent. The believer is a servant whose heart is being drawn. And if al-Isrāʾ teaches us how to believe without seeing, then al-Miʿrāj points us toward what belief is ultimately moving toward: divine nearness, honored company, and reward.

From this point we arrive at shawq, yearning. When a heart truly believes, it does not only accept. It begins to want. It desires nearness. Even in this life, Allah grants the believer brief tastes of faith’s sweetness: moments of calm in worship, clarity in reliance, and light in the heart. Those tastes awaken a longing that the world cannot replace. Once the heart has tasted something real, it can no longer be fully satisfied with substitutes.

This longing is not emotional excess. It has a rational foundation that fits naturally with tasdīq. Imām al-Ghazālī explains it simply: longing only exists toward what is loved, and it only arises when something is known in part but not fully possessed. What is completely unknown does not stir longing. What is fully grasped no longer pulls the heart forward. Longing lives in between. You have seen enough to be certain, but not enough to feel complete. That is the believer’s condition in this world. We know Allah truly through revelation and through His signs, but our knowledge is always accompanied by veils: distraction, weakness, and limited capacity. We are not meant to have full clarity here. For that reason, longing is not a sign of weak faith. Very often it is a sign of living faith.

The scholars also distinguish between two kinds of longing. One kind is longing to complete what has already been tasted. This longing is fulfilled in the Hereafter, when the believer is honored with the ultimate reward: seeing Allah. That fulfillment is not granted in this world. The second kind of longing is deeper and more subtle: longing for what can never be exhausted or completed. This kind does not end, not even in Paradise, because Allah’s Majesty and Beauty have no limit. Even in Paradise, the vision of Allah does not entail encompassing Him. The believer witnesses, but does not contain. Nearness continues to unfold without end. For this reason, Paradise does not plateau. Delight does not fade. Longing itself becomes a source of everlasting joy.

Now the arc is complete. Tasdīq is the heart’s trust in revelation, grounded in knowledge and proof. As tasdīq deepens, it produces steadiness and calm. But it also awakens desire. The more one knows, the more one yearns. This is why the Prophet ﷺ taught us to ask not only for Paradise as a place, but for the delight of gazing at Allah and the longing to meet Him, asking for a longing protected from harm and misguidance. The goal is not to extinguish longing, but to purify it, direct it, and carry it until it reaches its true fulfillment.

Returning finally to Abū Bakr al-Ṣiddīq, we see that his tasdīq was not a random impulse. It was the summit of a relationship with the Messenger ﷺ that produced a heart ready to accept truth when it was tested. In a world that demands plausibility before trust, Abū Bakr teaches us how faith is built: by knowing the Messenger ﷺ, establishing the truthfulness of revelation, and standing firm when belief is mocked. Al-Isrāʾ teaches us how to believe without seeing. Al-Miʿrāj points us to what awaits those who do: a meeting that does not end, a vision that does not exhaust, and a longing that becomes an eternal form of delight. Tasdīq steadies the heart in this life. Shawq draws it forward. And seeing Allah is not the end of desire, but its endless expansion, because the One who is sought is limitless, and the joy of seeking Him never runs out.