In praise of the written exam

I am in one of the only Div School classes offering a written final (i.e. not a language exam), and my friends in other concentrations have reacted with disbelief: "What!? This is graduate school!" "So, you're supposed to memorize all the Bible stuff?" "Why can't he just have a paper, like everyone else?".  The kindest responses have sought some kind of professorial utility: "Well, it makes it hard to plagiarize" or "Must be easier to grade." 

Here's the thing: I love final exams. I think they're effective learning tools. Moreover, I think they're nifty. 

Why? Well, first of all, they force me to review the whole semester. An exam doesn't even have to be well-written to do this, just threatening. In studying for an exam, I make sure that I have at least a passing familiarity with all of the material. When writing a paper, by contrast, I focus on the few texts or theorists relevant to my research. In short, exams give me a better shot at remembering the course material.

But it's not just about "remembering all the Bible stuff." It's about considering all the Bible stuff. When we write, we choose what we think is interesting or good, and start from there. This is a useful skill--discernment--but only when used in conjunction with openness. I know that I am all too quick, as someone at the very start of my career, to reject work that I find inadequate, or flawed. The exam forces me to look at each scholar we've read this term, and ask myself seriously, "What does this contribute? Why is it important?"

While paper-writing helps me focus my thinking and make connections on the micro-level, exam writing requires a broad perspective. A good exam requires the student to make connections between ideas discussed separately in the class, to think about the construction of the course and the larger concepts behind it. A great exam requires the student to think about the implications of those connections in relation to the broader field of study. I had a teacher in 12th grade who famously said, as he passed out blue books, "Showing me that this exam is a doorway will earn you a B+. Stepping through that doorway is the only way to get an A." 

I like to think of that exam-doorway as the exit to the house we've been living in together all term. We've held discussion around the kitchen table, we've listened to lectures in the living room. We've had guest speakers and opened up the parlor, we've parsed some really tricky stuff in the home office. But now, it's time to leave, and the question is, what will we take with us? Do we know where we've been? Where do we go from here?