This is the time of year when amateur singers around the world gather in church sanctuaries and basements to belt out “For Unto Us a Child is Born,” “His Yoke is Easy” and other choruses from Handel’s “Messiah.” 

This year, you can probably find some Zoom version, but that won’t do the trick, not with this piece of music. Beyond the loss of life and livelihood, which is of course what we mourn the most, one of the pandemic’s other great casualties is how it has banished group singing.

Singing aloud is one of life’s great joys, and doing it with others a great joy heightened. But that pleasure has been denied us since early last spring, when we learned that singing spreads the virus more efficiently than almost anything else. 

There are many ironies here, including this one: that an activity that helps us banish our troubles is not here for us when we need it most. 

I don’t know about other once-a-year choristers, but this one will be singing the Hallelujah Chorus aloud anyway. It will be in my house, the stereo cranked up high.  It will be fervent and spine-tingling. But I will be doing it … alone.