1 Enoch is unmistakably henotheistic in its worldview. It portrays a cosmos filled with powerful spiritual beings—archangels, watchers, the heavenly host—not as imaginary symbols, but as real agents with authority, intelligence, and responsibility. Yet above them all stands the Most High, the Holy One, the Lord of Spirits, supreme and unchallenged. This is not atheistic abstraction nor rigid monotheism, but a hierarchy: one God enthroned above many divine beings who serve, rebel, or are judged by Him. The text moves freely in this framework, assuming it as the natural structure of reality. God’s uniqueness is defined not by isolation, but by absolute sovereignty over lesser powers. This is classic henotheism—the same cosmic architecture that underlies much of the Hebrew Bible, the Psalms, and early Christian thought.
Because of this, 1 Enoch fit well within Second Temple Judaism, where belief in multiple heavenly powers, angelic councils, and cosmic conflict was not only mainstream but central to apocalyptic expectation. Books like Daniel, Jubilees, the Qumran writings, and even the New Testament share this same mental universe. The popularity of Enoch among early Christians, including church fathers such as Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, and Tertullian, is therefore unsurprising. Enoch gives theological substance to themes also present in Revelation, Jude, and Paul—particularly the idea of God enthroning a chosen Son of Man beside Him to judge angels and nations. For early believers, who accepted plurality in heaven as self-evident, Enoch strengthened rather than challenged their faith.
However, after the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, Judaism began moving toward strict monotheism, driven by the need to defend identity against both pagan polytheism and emergent Christianity. The idea of multiple heavenly powers—once ordinary—became dangerous. Rabbinic Judaism eventually declared “two powers in heaven” a heresy, effectively suppressing texts like Enoch that depicted expansive divine plurality. In this new monotheistic environment, Enoch’s cosmic hierarchy, rebellious angels, and exalted Son of Man became theologically awkward, even threatening. Suppressing Enoch helped narrow the boundaries of acceptable belief.
Later Christian theology developed along a different but related path. As the church moved toward a metaphysical doctrine of the Trinity, especially under figures like Athanasius and Augustine, henotheistic cosmology no longer fit. If Father, Son, and Spirit must be defined as one substance, eternal and co-equal, then a text that openly presents two distinct enthroned powers—God and His chosen Son of Man—became problematic. Enoch was loved in the early church precisely for its clarity about a divine hierarchy, but as doctrine shifted, this clarity became a liability. Rather than rejecting Enoch directly, it became easier to quietly exclude it from canonical lists and liturgical use. Augustine’s influence in shaping Western theology accelerated this process, and by the time the Vulgate canon solidified, Enoch had effectively vanished from circulation.
Thus the contrast is striking. In the period when divine plurality was accepted, Enoch flourished. In eras aiming for theological singularity—first rabbinic, then Trinitarian—it faded. It may not be provable that Enoch was suppressed because it was henotheistic, but the pattern is difficult to ignore: where cosmology allowed many powers under one God, Enoch was welcome. Where theology demanded a solitary God or a metaphysically unified Trinity, Enoch became inconvenient.
In this way, 1 Enoch serves as a kind of mirror. It reflects the worldview of the earliest Jews and Christians, where heaven was populated, authority was relational, and God’s uniqueness meant supremacy rather than solitude. Its disappearance from mainstream canons tells the story of how far Jewish and Christian thought eventually moved from that older, more expansive vision of divine reality.
