Outside of Myself, for the Sake of Others Only

“…Baal HaSulam explained the matter of a prayer of many as a person praying for the many; this is called “a prayer of many.” This is why a prayer of many is called “a time of good will.” When a person prays for himself, he has slander and questions whether his prayer is truly worth acceptance. But when he prays for the public, it becomes irrelevant to scrutinize him and to see if he is worthy of his prayer being answered, since he is not asking for anything for himself, but only for the public…” Rabash, The Importance of a Prayer of Many

There is a prison in which I have lived all my life.

It has no iron bars, no locked doors, no guards standing at its entrance. It travels with me wherever I go. It speaks in my voice, thinks through my thoughts, and looks at the world through my eyes.

That prison is myself.

From the moment I awaken until the moment sleep takes me, I calculate: What will happen to me? What will I receive? Who respects me? Who has hurt me? When will I be understood? When will I feel secure, fulfilled, loved?

Even when I turn toward spirituality, I carry the same prison with me.

I ask for revelation because I want to see. I ask for connection because I want to feel whole. I ask for correction because I want peace. I ask for the Creator because I want Him to fill the emptiness inside me.

My words may sound holy, but the voice beneath them continues to whisper:

Me. For me. Give it to me.

Then comes a moment of painful recognition. I understand that the door to the spiritual world cannot open while I remain enclosed within myself. The passage does not lead deeper into my private heart. It leads outward — toward the hearts of others.

And there, at the border of my self-concern, the real work begins.

The place I cannot reach alone

I look at the people around me and discover how distant they are from my heart.

I may smile at them, speak warmly, study beside them, and participate in acts of connection. Yet beneath these gestures, I still measure everyone according to myself. One person attracts me; another irritates me. One seems important; another appears insignificant. One makes me feel safe; another awakens resistance.

I call them friends, but my ego asks only one question: What are they to me?

How can I step outside this calculation?

I try to command myself to love. I tell myself that connection is important, that the friends are great, and that unity is the purpose of creation. But the heart does not obey noble speeches. It remains stubbornly closed.

Then I encounter my helplessness.

I cannot manufacture love. I cannot force another person’s desire to become more important than my own. I cannot erase the instinct that places me at the center of existence.

The harder I try, the more clearly I see the truth: I cannot escape from myself by myself.

This realization is not defeat. It is the beginning of prayer.

Take what I wanted and give it to them

At first, I do not know how to pray for others. My heart still wants everything for itself.

So I begin with the desires I already have.

I want strength — let them receive strength.

I want understanding — let their hearts understand.

I want hope — let hope awaken in them.

I want to feel the Creator — let Him be revealed in the connection among them.

I want to be lifted above fear — carry them above every fear.

I take every request that burns inside me, remove my name from it, and place their names there instead.

The ego immediately protests.

“What about you?” it asks. “Who will take care of you? If they receive everything, what will remain for you?”

And I have no reassuring answer.

Perhaps nothing will remain for me.

Perhaps they will advance while I stand still. Perhaps they will enter the palace while I remain outside its gates. Perhaps light will fill their hearts, and no one will remember who prayed for them.

Can I still ask?

Can I say, without bargaining, “Give everything to them”?

This is where prayer becomes real — not when beautiful words leave my lips, but when the heart faces the possibility of receiving no reward and still chooses the others.

Let no one know

The ego can tolerate sacrifice if sacrifice makes it important. It is willing to give if someone records the gift. It is willing to serve if service produces gratitude, admiration, or spiritual pride.

It even knows how to turn humility into a crown.

Therefore, the purest request is hidden:

Let the friends receive, but let them never know that I asked.

Let goodness reach them through someone else.

Let the Creator be pleased through a person I do not like.

Let the result be completely disconnected from me.

Let there be no applause, no gratitude, no inner certificate declaring that I am righteous.

Let even my own heart forget that it gave.

Such a prayer feels like disappearing. Yet perhaps what disappears is only the false image of myself — the self that must own every action and stand at the center of every outcome.

What remains is a quiet point of love that asks for nothing except the well-being of others.

Even when the heart is cold

There are days when these words feel true. There are other days when I feel nothing.

The friends do not concern me. Their hopes seem distant, their pain does not enter my heart, and prayer becomes a collection of empty sentences. I look inside and find only indifference.

Should I wait for a sincere feeling?

No.

I begin mechanically.

Morning, midday, evening — again and again, I ask for them. I speak words my heart does not yet support:

“Unite them.”

“Strengthen them.”

“Protect their desire.”

“Let no one fall away.”

“Give them the power to care for one another.”

“Let their connection become a home for Your presence.”

The heart may remain silent, but every request knocks against it. Every repetition reveals another layer of resistance. I begin to see how deeply I am enclosed within myself.

This painful knowledge is already an answer. I asked to love the others, and the light showed me what prevents that love.

Now my prayer can become more honest:

“Creator, I do not truly care for them. But I want to want to care. Give me the desire that I cannot create.”

The friend I cannot love

It is easy to speak about love in the abstract. The real test has a face.

It is the friend who annoys me, the person I judge, the one whose habits I cannot tolerate. It is someone I consider weaker, less serious, less intelligent, or less worthy.

My ego assures me that the problem is in that person. But the separation I feel is the very material I have been given for correction.

I do not need to erase the rejection or pretend it is not there. I must rise above it through prayer.

“Give this friend everything I wanted for myself.”

The words burn.

“Let this person advance beyond me.”

The ego recoils.

“Let this friend bring You greater contentment than I ever could.”

Something inside me breaks.

And through that crack, a ray of freedom enters.

For one moment, I am no longer measuring the friend according to myself. I am asking for that person’s life, joy, correction, and closeness to the Creator. I have stepped — if only by a fraction — outside my prison.

Carrying one another

No one can remain strong at every moment.

Today a friend may be full of inspiration. Tomorrow he may be unable to rise from his inner darkness. Today I may pray with tears; tomorrow I may have no prayer at all.

This is why we were given one another.

When I cannot walk, the friends carry my desire. When they cannot ask, I ask for them. We become responsible for the points in one another that have fallen silent.

Prayer for others is a promise made between hearts:

You will not disappear while I can still remember you.

I may be unable to remove your pain. I may not know what words to say to you. But I can hold your desire before the Creator. I can ask that strength pass to you, that the darkness loosen its grip, and that you feel — perhaps without knowing why — that you are not alone.

Tomorrow, when my own heart becomes heavy, perhaps your prayer will keep my spark alive.

This mutual responsibility forms a net beneath us. We still fall, but we no longer fall into emptiness.

The wall between our hearts

We search for the entrance to the spiritual world as though it were hidden somewhere beyond the sky. We wait for a secret door, a sudden revelation, or a miraculous sign.

But the wall stands much closer.

It stands between my heart and yours.

It is built from judgments I refuse to release, injuries I continue to protect, comparisons that make me feel superior, and the fear that loving you will diminish me.

Every stone in that wall bears the same inscription: myself.

No individual can break through it alone. The wall disappears only when we ask for one another — when each person stops demanding a private opening and begins seeking an entrance for everyone.

We arrive at the wall with an immense desire to unite and the terrible recognition that we cannot. We have exhausted our strength. We have tried every human effort and discovered that our hearts remain separate.

Then one cry rises from many hearts:

“Help us.”

Not “Take me across.”

Not “Reveal Yourself to me.”

But:

“Connect us, because we cannot connect ourselves.”

That common helplessness becomes the gate.

Where the Creator is waiting

The Creator is not waiting inside my private achievement. He is waiting in the connection between us.

He is revealed when rejection is covered by care, when distance becomes responsibility, and when a person’s greatest joy is the fulfillment of another.

The Creator enters the place from which I have removed my demand for myself.

There, in the space created between one heart and another, something begins to breathe. Our separate sparks gather into one desire. What I could never contain alone becomes possible between us.

This common vessel is the soul.

The soul is not my private possession. I cannot lock it inside myself and call it mine. It lives in the movement outward — in the prayer passing from me to the friends, from the friends to humanity, and from the common heart to the Creator.

The more I ask for others, the more this shared soul comes alive.

Outside of myself

To live outside myself does not mean neglecting the body, destroying my personality, or becoming emotionally empty. It means changing the purpose for which I live.

I still possess desires, thoughts, abilities, and strength. But now I ask that they become channels through which goodness reaches others.

Let my eyes notice the friend who is fading.

Let my ears hear the pain hidden beneath another person’s words.

Let my mind search for ways to strengthen the connection.

Let my heart carry those who cannot yet carry themselves.

Let everything given to me pass onward.

And when the ego again demands its reward — as it certainly will — I will not be ashamed.

I will bring even that demand into the prayer:

“Creator, look how tightly I cling to myself. I cannot release my life into the hands of love. Do for me only this: allow me to live for them.”

Perhaps I will never know whether my prayer helped. Perhaps I will see no result. Perhaps the friends will receive strength and believe it came from somewhere else.

Let it be so.

If they rise, let me remain beneath them.

If they shine, let me be forgotten.

If their hearts unite, let that be my fulfillment.

If the Creator rejoices in them, let that be my reward.

I ask for no place except the place from which I can pray:

Outside of myself,

for the sake of others only.

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