The following is the address of Rav Stechler, rosh yeshiva and dean of Heichal HaTorah, gave to the talmidim of Heichal on October 7, 2024, when all of Heichal gathered for the annual Tehillimathon, the recitation of the entire Tehillim.
Each year, during the Aseres Yemei Teshuva, Heichal gathers to recite the entire sefer Tehillim. This year, we decided to hold the Tehillimathon on October 7. How does 10/7 connect to our Tehillimathon?
The holiest moment of Yom Kippur is when the Kohen Gadol enters the Kodesh HaKodashim to daven on our behalf. What does he say during that intimate encounter with Hashem? He davens for the hatzlacha and shalom of Klal Yisroel. Yet, his final plea is shocking.
ועל אנשי שרון שלא יהו בתיהם קבריהם
The people of Sharon lived in a region prone to dangerous floods that threatened their lives and homes. The Kohen Gadol, attuned to their unique struggle, chose to include a specific tefillah for the residents of Sharon. His tefillah is broad and communal—success and peace for all of Klal Yisroel. So why does he single out the people of Sharon and their struggle with the floods? Why is this the final request the Kohen Gadol makes in his intimate conversation with the Creator on Yom Kippur?
October 7, 2023, was a day of unimaginable darkness. Approximately 1,200 Jews were brutally murdered—many were raped, burned alive or slaughtered, and 240 were taken captive, marking the beginning of a war. In the fighting that followed, 727 IDF soldiers, all of them younger than I and barely older than you, our talmidim, gave their lives.
How should we commemorate October 7? I believe the answer is to recite Tehillim. I want to explain why—though doing so is deeply painful.
I am incredibly proud of Klal Yisroel’s response and of Heichal’s response to October 7. Some among us, like Dovid Messner (Heichal 2020), serve in the IDF, risking their lives to fight terrorists. Others supported the soldiers by donating money and sending supplies to keep them safe and warm. Some sent clothing to help those in Israel endure this challenging time. Some traveled to Washington to ensure that America supports Israel’s right to defend itself and provides the arms needed to eliminate terrorists. We learned the Torah to provide spiritual protection for the civilians and soldiers in Israel. I am deeply proud of all the efforts from our entire staff and each of you, our talmidim. Together, we are strengthening Klal Yisroel.
But I want to speak about something I am not proud of—about myself. And I want to be clear: What I am about to share is self-criticism and may not apply to you. Last year, during this time of year and at the Tehillimathon—I davened. I davened for myself, for my family, for each talmid and every staff member at Heichal HaTorah, and for their families. I even davened for all of Klal Yisroel.
But here’s what I am not proud of: If you had asked me at last year’s Tehillimathon, “Aryeh, do you know that the town of Sderot is under constant threat from Hamas rockets?” I would have answered yes. But the town of Sderot never entered my tefillos. I didn’t daven specifically for those Israelis living near Gaza. If you had asked me, “Aryeh, do you know that thousands of Israelis will put on uniforms, strap on their boots, pick up their weapons and risk their lives to protect Israel?” I would have answered yes. I know that without the IDF—and without Hashem’s protection of the IDF—we would be gone. I answered “amen” to the tefillah for the soldiers. But did I cry out from the depths of my heart, pleading with Hashem to protect those soldiers’ lives? Last night, my wife showed me a video of young soldiers, just a year or so older than many of you, preparing to enter Lebanon. They cried out “Ana Hashem hoshia na” with a passion I had never seen before. Did I, with the same urgency, last Tehillimathon cry out for them in my tefillos? I didn’t. And that is what I am not proud of.
This year for me will be different, bli neder, tonight at Tehilllimathon, Yom Kippur and the rest of my life.
The Gemara in Makkos teaches us that even if one person in Klal Yisroel dies accidentally, we turn to the Kohen Gadol and ask, “Why didn’t you daven for them?” The Kohen Gadol must know every person’s daagos—their fears, their hopes. He must feel their struggles so deeply—k’ish echad b’lev echad—as if they were his own, and daven for everything they are davening for, as if he is standing in their shoes.
Why does the Kohen Gadol include the worries of the anshei (people of) Sharon? Why is this the climax of his tefillah? Because a true Kohen Gadol is not simply someone who believes in achdus—bringing people together in a room, and/or just appreciating the strengths of each person of the community. A true Kohen Gadol goes beyond that. He sees all of our people so profoundly that he understands what keeps them up at night and what they cry out for in their own tefillos. And he davens for them as if their worries were his own—as if they were his own family. That is why his final plea to Hashem on Yom Kippur is for those who fear the floods. I am sure, although we do not record it, that the Kohen Gadol davened for every community and each Jew individually—because that is who a Kohen Gadol is.
When my daughter was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, and 20 doctors rushed into the room, of course, I davened from the depths of my heart, pleading with Hashem. When our dear friend Rav Oberlander, zt”l, fell ill, of course, we poured out our hearts in tefillah. But what about the rest of our brothers and sisters—those in Sderot, those serving in the IDF, those living in the North of Israel, who I don’t know personally? Did I daven for them last year? Did I daven for them as if they were my daughter or my best friend?
This year, b’ezras Hashem, I want to change. I beg Hashem to help me, to help all of us, to see that every Jew worldwide is part of us. We need to feel their pain as if it’s our own. We need to imagine the fear that grips Israelis when they wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of sirens, knowing that the next missile could strike them. We must feel the anxiety of knowing that our children, friends and brothers are fighting on the front lines, where a single misstep could mean they never come home.
And this year, I am committed—and I ask all of us—to change how we daven. Tonight, as we recite the entire sefer Tehillim, and on Yom Kippur, when we enter our own Kodesh HaKodashim, let our hearts be filled with thoughts of every Jew, wherever they may be. Let us daven as if each of their struggles is our own, as if each of their fears beats within our own hearts. May we become one, k’ish echad b’lev echad, with all of Klal Yisroel.
Perhaps one day, ChatGPT will be able to print out, before the Tehillimathon, the name of every Jew in the world and what they are davening for. And we’ll be able to daven for every Jew, with the clarity of knowing each person’s needs. But until that day we must take the time to learn about what Jews all over the world are davening for, and we must love them so much that we daven for them as if their challenges were our own.
It’s incredibly difficult to truly grasp what each hostage is enduring—not knowing, day by day, whether they’ll eat, whether they’ll survive another moment. At our Seder, my wife printed out information about a hostage named Shlomi Ziv, and we spent time learning about him and davening for him. When he was freed from his mitzrayim, our family was overjoyed, as if someone who had sat at our Seder had been rescued. We need to research, to understand the struggles of every hostage and every member of Klal Yisroel, and to daven for them as if their suffering were our own.
To be a talmid of Heichal means to strive to be like the Kohen Gadol. It means thinking about every Jew, no matter what they wear, no matter what they believe, no matter what they do or where they live. And it means davening for them, begging Hashem to protect every Jew from their unique challenges. It’s noticing, “This friend of mine needs encouragement in his learning,” or “That friend is learning so much, I’m worried he might burn out,” or “This friend is struggling with reading Gemara.” It means davening for each Jew individually, with genuine care and empathy, as if their needs were our own. That is the responsibility and privilege of being a part of Klal Yisroel.
What is Tehillim, and why is reciting the entire sefer Tehillim so important on October 7? Tehillim embodies what it means to be a Jew: that another person’s challenges are our challenges and our immediate response is to help them—and above all, to daven for them. When a family member falls ill, what is the first thing we do? We gather together, start a group chat and recite Tehillim. That’s who we are. We are Am Yisroel. We care for one another, we reach out to Hashem and we daven for each other.
On October 7, as we remember the unimaginable pain and suffering that took place, reciting Tehillim is our way of saying that the pain of those who suffered is our pain, that the fear and uncertainty of every captive, every soldier—and the pain of each of the 1200 families who lost someone—is our own pain. And our response is to turn to Hashem with the words of Tehillim, just as Jews have done throughout history, when any of us is in pain.
The Gemara in Berachos (8a) teaches that when we daven as a tzibur—as a united community—Hashem always listens to our tefillos. This is based on the pasuk in Tehillim (55).
פדה בשלום נפשי מקרבי לי
Dovid HaMelech says, “How was I saved from all the dangerous battles I fought in?”
כי ברבים היה עמדי
Rashi explains that people loved Dovid. They loved him so much they all davened for him to be successful, and Dovid felt that all the people were with him.
Rav Rabinowitz, in Rav Aryeh Westreich’s sefer Meir LaOlam, explains that Hashem may have His reasons for bringing din (judgment) upon a person. But when others—whether friends, family or even strangers—feel that person’s pain deeply and include themselves in their tefillah, Hashem says, “Those other people were never subject to this din.” And Hashem brings an end to the suffering. When we feel the pain of our fellow Jews and include their suffering in our tefillos, we become a part of their struggle and our voices together can rip off the din. Rav Soloveitchik writes in “On Repentance” that “in order to partake [on Yom Kippur] of the communal acquittal, he must be bound to the community; the stronger his bond, the greater degree of acquittal he will enjoy through the intermediation of the community.”
This year, as we recite all of Tehillim, and as we daven on Yom Kippur for life, of course, I will daven for my own life, my family, my friends, my talmidim and all of Klal Yisroel. But I will not repeat the mistake I made last year. This time, I will go through as many people in my mind as possible, even if it takes a long time, and think about each Jew, and ask Hashem to relieve their personal struggle.
As talmidim of Heichal, I implore you to do the same. Think through everyone in your life and what they need. Reflect on each person in Israel—those you know, like Lazer Stechler (Heichal 24), and those you don’t know. Think of each soldier in the IDF, like Dovid Mesner (Heichal 20), and those you don’t know, and the danger they face. Remember the Jews in Sderot, Be’eri and the anshei Sharon. At Heichal, we are Kohanim Gedolim—feeling the pain of every Jew, loving them deeply and davening for them with all our hearts. We must say Tehillim for each of them as if their struggles were our own – because they are.
And I have a dream—a dream of a day when all 15.7 million Jews recite 15.7 million tefillos, with each Jew having in mind the situation of every other Jew around the world. That would amount to over 246 trillion tefillos. I have no doubt that if Hashem received such a tremendous outpouring of heartfelt tefillos, He would bring the geula (redemption) and send the Moshiach, bimheira b’yameinu (speedily in our time).
Rav Aryeh Stechler is the rosh yeshiva and dean of Heichal HaTorah.
