From bar exam to billboard: Where numbers don’t matter

We watched the bar results live on television, my family clustered around the screen under the polite fiction that we were there only for friends. Yet, as the program stretched on, we leaned in. When my alma mater was announced as the home of the top scorer, I let out a shout that startled the household. It was the kind of sound usually reserved for last-second baskets or election night wins. In that moment, we were not merely observers but participants in a rite that was once my own.

The affection is understandable. The bar is punishing. The coverage is vast and the preparation is yearslong. For many households, a passer’s name is not just a credential but a receipt—proof that emotional, financial, and sometimes intergenerational investment has not been misplaced. The joy is earned.

The distinction matters. The Carnegie Foundation found that exam-driven systems privilege analytical performance while sidelining ethical judgment and practical wisdom.

Our fixation on scores and percentiles assumes more than just qualifications. Passing rates have swung wildly—from 75.17 percent in 1954 to 16.59 percent in 1999, then up to 72.28 percent in 2020 to 2021 and 48.98 percent in 2025—tracking shifts in exam philosophy more than generational intellect. While top performers often thrive across fields of law, many influential figures, including jurists who shaped enduring doctrines, did not shine in the bar. Some who stumbled on their first try became exemplary servant-leaders. Still, the ritual persists, preserving an exacting but shaky hierarchy.

Other jurisdictions are more restrained. The United States releases only the names of passers. Canada and Australia emphasize supervised practice. Japan—once the hardest bar in the world, with pass rates of 2 to 3 percent for decades—and South Korea announce passers without official rankings. In the United Kingdom, results are released privately, with only aggregate statistics made public. The Philippines sits at the expressive end of the spectrum.

The spectacle reshapes legal education. When schools compete for passing rates and topnotcher slots, curricula begin to orbit the exam. Teaching narrows to what can be predicted and drilled. Students learn how to answer structurally, not necessarily how to think critically; how to spot issues, not how to resolve human problems. Time that should be spent writing with clarity, participating in legal aid clinics, or confronting ethical gray zones is surrendered to bar tactics, examiner psychology, and even chairperson predispositions.

And then came a counterpoint. A major network interviewed this year’s topnotcher, as if waiting for a parable to rise on cue. None did. Asked for inspiration, he said that he just wanted to become a lawyer. He learned of the results while riding a jeepney, having deliberately stepped away from the internet to keep his footing. His answers were spare, almost ascetic. He described his feat as “a bit superfluous,” a reminder that much of the celebration belonged to us—to our sacrifices, our hopes, our need for numbers—rather than to the law itself.

The bar is not a destination but a ticket punch. It ushers you forward without ceremony, sets you down into the stream of ordinary days, and moves on. What follows—lawyering in earnest—unfolds far from countdown clocks and rankings: in offices that stay lit past dusk, in trial courts that test patience, in mediation tables where no one keeps score, in advocacy spaces where the work is unseen but the stakes are human.