Unresolved: Reason and Revelation in Harmony

Unresolved: Reason and Revelation in Harmony

A Critical Reflection on Aquinas and the Tension Between Reason and Revelation

Joseph D. Sanns

Phil 201: History of Philosophy

Dr. Michael Arts

02 April 2025

Introduction

St. Thomas Aquinas teaches that truth, whether discovered by reason or revealed by God, ultimately is the same and must therefore be in harmony. Yet, to many, the experience of that harmony is not always immediate. For those who engage with both intellect and faith, the connection between reason and revelation often feels more like unresolved tension rather than a harmony. This paper explores Aquinas’s synthesis of reason and faith, critically reflects on its tension through the lens of musical dissonance, and offers a Latter-day Saint perspective on how living within that tension is not only tolerable—but transformative.

Reason and Revelation to Aquinas

In Summa contra Gentiles, Aquinas distinguishes between two modes of divine truth. Some truths—such as the existence of God or the unity of His nature—are accessible to human reason. Other truths—such as the Trinity or the Incarnation—surpass reason’s grasp and are only known by revelation. Aquinas does not regard these categories as in conflict. On the contrary, he insists that “truth cannot contradict truth,” and therefore reason and revelation, while distinct, cannot ultimately disagree.

Aquinas further argues that even truths which reason could discover are graciously revealed to us because human inquiry is difficult, error-prone, and inaccessible to many. Most people, he notes, do not have the time, education, or philosophical aptitude to reach metaphysical conclusions unaided. Revelation, then, is a divine mercy. It grants every seeker access to the most important truths, and, to Aquinas, elevates the work of reason rather than replacing it.

Aquinas never abandons reason. He sees philosophy as a disciplined partner in the service of theology. He teaches us to reason, and to do so in humility—always aware that the human mind, for all its brilliance, is still limited. It cannot fully contain what is infinite. Our logic may point us toward God, but it cannot replace the need for revelation.

How We Talk About God

That awareness of God’s incomprehensibility shapes how Aquinas thinks we should speak about Him. Within Christian thought, there are two main approaches to talking about God: positive theology and negative theology.

Positive theology uses rhetoric that affirms what God is. It’s the language of scripture and devotion—“God is good,” “God is love,” “God is just.” This way of speaking uses human concepts to approach the divine, drawing analogies from what we know to what we do not.

But to Aquinas, there is danger here. If we’re not careful, we start treating God like a projection of ourselves—bigger, stronger, better, but essentially human, merely a reflection of our desires rather than a being outside and greater than us all.

That’s where negative theology steps in. This tradition speaks by denial. It tells us what God is not—not finite, not changeable, not comprehensible. It protects the mystery of God, preserving His utter transcendence. Yet instituting a negative theology solely may leave us with a God so beyond us that we no longer know how to speak to or know Him at all.

Aquinas walks a careful line between these two. He believes we can speak truthfully about God—but only by analogy. God is not wise in the way we are wise, but He is not less than that either. He is wise in a higher, fuller, purer way. Aquinas develops what he calls a threefold way of talking about God:

1. Affirmation – “God is good.”

2. Negation – “But not human goodness.”

3. Supereminence – “God is beyond even the best of what we mean by good.”

He doesn’t resolve the tension between knowing and not-knowing. He reveres it. He affirms that language about God can be true, but never exhaustive. In that sense, Aquinas is a scholastic yet also a sort of mystic.

The Distance Between Thought and Faith

Still, the experience of believing while thinking is not always seamless. It is not enough to just study the tension between reason and revelation— we have to learn to live with it. For a long time, I assumed that with enough faith, experience, obedience and prayer that my reason and my believing would always agree. That if I got it right, they’d lock into place. When they didn’t, I saw it as failure—either of my mind or of my faith. But over time, that started to feel dishonest. I needed a better way to live inside the distance. I found it—unexpectedly—in learning about dissonant harmonies in music.

The Music of Theological Dissonance

Not all music resolves. Not all harmony is smooth. Some of the most compelling music is built on dissonance—notes that rub against each other, producing friction instead of blend. They clash. They resist. But they do so within the rules. Dissonance still follows structure. It still belongs. And that’s what makes it powerful.

Some of the greatest composers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries—like Igor Stravinsky and Claude Debussy—were known for this. They wrote music full of dissonant harmonies, not to break anything or be rebellious, but perhaps to personalize music and invite the listeners in. Dissonance brought a depth and more power to the music when it refused to resolve.

In The Rite of Spring, Stravinsky lets rhythms grind and tonal centers collapse. The melodies collide. It sounds like it shouldn’t work—but it does, because it’s deliberate. The tension is designed. It locks you in. You can’t ignore it, and you can’t stay passive. You have to decide what to do with it.

Debussy’s approach is more subtle, but no less rigorous. His chords drift. The notes lean into each other just enough to stay unsettled. It’s soft, but never stable. You listen closely because you want to know where it’s going—but it doesn’t tell you. It waits for you to bring yourself and your resolution to it.

That’s the point. Dissonance, when it’s structured, doesn’t give you the answer. It asks for you. It requires you to enter fully into your senses—into your experience—and actively engage with the music, resolving its meaning in your own mind. It makes you participate in the resolution. That’s why it matters. It draws you into the music. It gives you work to do.

And maybe that’s exactly what reason and revelation are: two tones that don’t blend easily, but still belong in the same piece. They rub. They pull against each other. But they’re both true. Both necessary. The dissonance between them doesn’t mean something has gone wrong—it means something is being worked out. In you.

Sometimes I need the music. I need to live in the unresolved. I need the tension between thinking and trusting, between philosophical rigor and spiritual surrender. Not because I expect it to end, but because I’ve come to believe that the tension itself is proof I’m still learning. Still seeking. Still in tune. If the dissonance is there, it means I haven’t stopped listening.

And I believe this: that for those who stay in the tension—who wrestle, who listen, who don’t give up—consonance (resolution) will come. Not all at once, maybe not even in this life. But in flashes. In phrases. In moments of alignment that feel like grace. Not every chord will resolve here. But some will. Enough to keep you listening.

A Latter-day Wrestle

President Russell M. Nelson has taught that “truth is truth,” echoing Aquinas. Revelation cannot contradict itself. But President Nelson also urges us to learn how to receive revelation—and that requires movement. It requires a wrestle. Like Jacob at Peniel. Like Nephi pondering his father’s vision. Like Joseph Smith in a grove.

Truth does not always arrive like a thesis. Often it comes “line upon line”—not a philosophical progression, but a spiritual rhythm. The Spirit doesn’t always speak in syllogisms. Sometimes it speaks in tension. In a pause. In a silence held just longer than we expect.

That’s where faith becomes action. When we choose to act even while the chord still hangs unresolved. When we step forward without having all the answers. That’s where trust in God becomes real—when you have reason to pause, and still you go on.

Conclusion: The Consonance That Follows

Aquinas once said that everything he had written was like straw compared to what had been revealed to him. I do not think that was embarrassment. That was awe. That was the sound of a philosopher who reached the end of logic, wrestled with faith and found the music waiting.

This is the nature of the search. We’re not meant to resolve every dissonance right away. We’re meant to walk into it. To live in it. When we follow the truth we know and hold space for the mystery we don’t, something begins to shift. Not always visibly. Not all at once.

And the consonance does come. Sometimes in moments. Sometimes in memory. Sometimes at the very end. Not always as clarity—but as peace. As a sense that the unresolved was part of the design.

It feels like coming home.

It feels like God.