"Crucify him!".

I have participated in a number of memorable interfaith worship experiences. I will pray with anyone who prays to the one, true, living God, whether called by that name, Allah, Adonai, or the Holy One. But before adding my "Amen," I listen carefully to determine that nothing in the prayer contradicts my personal beliefs. In prayer I endeavor to mean what I say, and say only what I mean.

A similar situation exists whenever I encounter the Holy Week practice of rendering the Passion in the style that assigns the crowd parts to the assembly. Although many thoughtful worshipers express discomfort at shouting the words "Crucify him," this practice remains widespread and popular.

It was on Palm Sunday 1987 that I became convinced that this liturgical practice was wrong. As I read the line "Let his blood be upon us and upon our children" with the rest of the assembly, it triggered a reaction that has remained with me ever since: I didn't mean those words, and it seemed unsuitable that the rite should lead me to speak them. This isn't prayer. In prayer we say what we mean and mean what we say. This, on the other hand, is role playing.

In Luke 4, Jesus enters the synagogue, steps up to read, and is handed the scroll. It is fundamental to the Judeo-Christian-Islamic traditions--book religions--that the book containing the Word of God is read in worship. No one pretends anything.

The traditional method of rendering the Passion--and the method still regarded in the Roman Rite as normative--is for the Passion to be chanted by three ordained ministers (priests or deacons), who take the roles of Jesus, narrator, and others. In the absence of sufficient ordained ministers, lay readers take the parts of the narrator and others, while the priest reads the part of Jesus. A typical sung rendition of the Passion would include the three chanters as identified above, with the choir singing all parts of the "others" made up of more than a single speaker.

Shortly after Vatican II, a U.S. publisher of missalettes conceived the idea of speaking the text with a new twist--using three readers, as was the tradition, but giving the plural parts to the assembly. Although the records of the bishops' Committee on the Liturgy do not contain an official approval of the practice, somehow approval was obtained, and the Passion gospels quickly appeared in nearly all popular participation aids divided into this form. For most Americans, it has become the generally accepted method of rendering the Passion gospel.

I believe that nowhere in the world is there a published lectionary that prints the Passion in this form. This is a post-Vatican II American adaptation, conceived and promulgated by a publisher with the noble intent of fostering assembly participation--but it is unfortunately contrary to the nature of the proclamation of God's Word--asking people to engage in role playing, saying things they don't mean. It is time for a course correction.

But how does one breathe life into this lengthy gospel with all the incumbent difficulty of maintaining the listener's attentiveness over such a long span?

I believe that singing it is the best option. Have it sung by the three best singers the parish can gather--male or female--and have them practice together until it is perfect.

If it is read, three readers should take the customary roles of Jesus, narrator, and others and proclaim it without assembly participation. If the assembly has been accustomed to group recitation of the crowd parts, some catechesis will be necessary. Another option is to use multiple readers dividing the text in other ways, for example, by paragraph or scene.

If I play the role of Shakespeare's Hamlet or Saint Joseph in a Nativity play, I pretend to be someone I am not; it is fantasy. In liturgy, however, I am always myself. I am who I am standing before God and the Body of Christ assembled. I do not pretend to be someone else, and I do not place someone else's words on my lips unless I am able to fully make those words my words. And I do not shout, "Crucify him!"

By ROBERT J. BATASTINI, senior editor at GIA Publications in Chicago.