Aaron and David — The Two Anointed Ones

There is a verse in the book of Zechariah that has puzzled readers for centuries. The prophet, standing before a golden lampstand flanked by two olive trees, asks the angel: what are these? And the angel answers: "These are the two anointed ones who stand before the Lord of all the earth" (Zechariah 4:14).

Two anointed ones. Standing at the threshold of eternity. But who are they?

The rabbis of late antiquity did not leave the question unanswered. In Midrash Rabbah (3,279 texts), specifically in Bamidbar Rabbah 14:13, compiled c. 400–500 CE in Roman Palestine, they named them without hesitation: Aaron the High Priest, and David the King. Each one, the midrash explains, stands in his domain — Aaron reaching toward priesthood, David reaching toward kingship — and neither will ever be anointed again.

Why Only Once?

The question of anointing haunted the rabbinic imagination. Could it happen a second time? Would there be a renewal, a restoration, a moment when the altar and its servants were consecrated again?

The midrash shakes its head. "This" — the word ha-zot, used in the verse "This was the dedication of the altar" (Numbers 7:88) — signals finality. The altar was anointed once, in the Tabernacle in the wilderness. Not again during the Second Temple. Not in the Messianic era to come. The Etz Yosef commentary, a later gloss on Bamidbar Rabbah, explains that this limit was built into the original act: one consecration, complete and irreversible.

The same logic applies to Aaron and his sons. The verse says "This is the anointment of Aaron and the anointment of his sons" (Leviticus 7:35). This — and only this. There is something bracing about this teaching. The sacred does not repeat itself. Each consecration happens once, in its moment, and its holiness ripples forward without needing to be renewed. What was done in the desert under Moses stands for all time.

And yet Zechariah sees them still standing there, in some dimension beyond history, still holding their anointments as living crowns.

What King David Longed For

The second strand of this story comes from Vayikra Rabbah 8:3, a parallel midrashic collection from the same era. Here, the teachers begin with King David's yearning. Rabbi Idi opens the discussion: David, he says, "deeply yearned for the offering of the princes."

David wanted to build the Temple. He dreamed of its dedication the way a musician dreams of a concert hall built precisely for his instrument. And he wanted to inaugurate it as the Tabernacle had been inaugurated — with the great cumulative offering described in Numbers 7, twelve tribal princes bringing identical gifts across twelve days, their generosity perfectly matched in weight, breadth, and intent.

He never got to see it. The Temple was built by his son Solomon. But his longing was recorded, and the rabbis treated that longing as itself a form of holiness. In Psalms (66:15), David writes: "I will offer You burnt offerings of fattened animals with the burning of rams; I will sacrifice oxen and goats." Rabbi Idi points out that only one offering in the Torah combines bulls, rams, and sheep in that configuration — the princes' offering of Numbers 7:17. David's psalm is David dreaming the dedication he never performed.

Was the Offering Beloved?

The rabbis of Vayikra Rabbah could not stop themselves from asking: how beloved, exactly, was the offering of the princes? And their answers pile up like gifts, each one more astonishing than the last.

Rabbi Yehuda says it was as beloved as the Song at the Sea — that ecstatic poem the Israelites sang after the waters closed over Pharaoh's army (Exodus 15). He connects them through the word zeh, "this." At the sea, Israel sang: "This [zeh] is my God, and I will exalt Him!" (Exodus 15:2). And the dedication verse reads: "This [zeh] is the offering of Nahshon ben Aminadav" (Numbers 7:17). The same word. The same intensity. Two moments of pure encounter, linked by a single syllable.

Rabbi Nehemya disagrees — or rather, he elevates the comparison still further. He says the offering was as beloved as the two Tablets of the Law given at Sinai. The tablets were inscribed "from this side and from that side" (Exodus 32:15). And again: zeh. For Rabbi Nehemya, the princes' offering, like the tablets themselves, represented covenant — the seal of a relationship between God and Israel that no subsequent history could dissolve.

And the Rabbis collectively add a third view: Aaron's own first offering was as beloved as the offering of all the princes combined. Not just comparable — equivalent.

How a Number Becomes a World

Rabbi Berekhya, a 4th-century Palestinian sage known for his delight in gematria — the system of finding meaning in the numerical values of Hebrew letters — completes the teaching with a final flourish. He observes that the word zeh (זֶה) has a numerical value of twelve: zayin equals seven, heh equals five. Seven plus five. Twelve.

Therefore, when the verse says "This [zeh] is the offering of Aaron," it is simultaneously saying: this is the offering of all twelve tribes. Aaron's singular act contains the multitude. The High Priest standing alone before the altar is never truly alone — every tribe stands with him, every prince's gift is folded into his hands.

This is perhaps the midrash's deepest teaching. Aaron and David are named as the two anointed ones not because they alone matter, but because their anointings gathered Israel into a single vessel. Aaron's priesthood was Israel's priesthood. David's kingship was Israel's kingship. When Zechariah sees them standing before God, he is seeing the entire people — past, present, and future — held in two figures who never stop seeking what they were made for.

The Equality of the Princes

Before the midrash closes, it pauses over one more detail from Numbers 7: all twelve princes brought identical offerings. Same dimensions, same materials, same weight. No one exceeded his neighbor. No tribe outranked another.

Rabbi Shimon adds that their offerings were so equal in merit that God allowed them to bring their gifts on Shabbat — the day when nearly all ordinary labor is suspended. The rabbis explain this through a logic of perfect reciprocity: because no prince had tried to outshine the others, none would be disadvantaged by the rhythm of the sacred week. Their mutual respect collapsed the distinction between ordinary time and holy time.

"Twelve silver dishes, twelve silver basins, twelve golden ladles" — and even though the twelve came on twelve different days, scripture ascribes it as though they all came on the first day, and as though they all came on the last. Past and future collapse. Individual offerings become one eternal gesture.

Aaron stands before the altar. David stands before the throne. And somewhere in the architecture of the unseen world, the offering of the princes never stops arriving.