There are some people whose favorite concert of the year is the Chanticleer Christmas concert. I find it hard to dissent from them. The 12-man a cappella singing group from San Francisco was back in New York this week, performing their Christmas concerts at the Metropolitan Museum. I heard the second of two concerts on Sunday night.

The group amply confirmed its excellence: They were precise, smart, feeling. They exhibited their usual combination of technical discipline, musicality, and spiritual awareness. Awfully hard to beat.

They began their concert with Gregorian chant, and worked their way up through the centuries. Around 1600, they lighted on “In dulci jubilo,” in the Michael Praetorius version (or rather, one of them — there are many). The group’s singing might have been the definition of polyphonic happiness and goodwill. Then they sang a motet by Desprez. This might have been the definition of polyphonic peace.

As Chanticleer was singing, you could not hear a single man out of place — such was the unity of it all. You could forget 12 different voices: This was one choral machine (though “machine” is too cold a word for this group).

After Desprez, Chanticleer went Latin American, singing a little Christmas lullaby by Gaspar Fernández (1565–1629). This is in Mexico’s Nahuatl language, and it was gentle, lulling, and exquisite. Then came something livelier: a piece by Juan García de Zéspedes (1619–78). Here the group gave us the definition of refined raucousness. They did some yelping toward the end, which was a little Chi-Chi’s — but okay.

Next we had two songs by Baltic composers, the first of them by the great Estonian, Arvo Pärt. His “O Spross aus Isais Wurzel” injected some compositional stringency into the proceedings — but a heavenly stringency. Pure tonality returned with “O Radix Jesse,” by Vytautas Miskinis, a Lithuanian born in 1954. This, too, was heavenly. And Chanticleer’s quiet singing was exemplary. You could have heard a pin drop — yet the group’s sound was fully alive.

Perhaps the biggest treat of the evening was Bruckner’s “Virga Jesse.” In 1885, this composer of long symphonies wrote this brief choral work, and it reflects his genius. It also reflects his background as an organist — just as his symphonies do. When the music swelled, Chanticleer sounded rather like that “king of instruments.”

And a contemporary Swedish composer, Jan Sandstrom, has arranged — more like recomposed — “Es ist ein Ros entsprungen.” Why would you want to mess around with that wonderful piece? But Mr. Sandstrom has messed around very well: His version is beautiful, subtle, and surprising, and so was Chanticleer’s rendering of it.

Then it was time for traditional Christmas carols, in spiffy arrangements. Would you believe that the “Carol of the Bells” came to us in a jazz-gospel mix? It did, and it was thrilling. This arrangement was done by Buryl Red and Joseph Joubert. And the closing medley of spirituals was done by Chanticleer’s music director, Joseph Jennings. It began with “Everywhere I Go (Somebody Talkin’ About Jesus)” and ended with “Oh Jerusalem in the Morning.”

You won’t find a more jubilant and exuberant Christmas song than this last. But Chanticleer was oddly subdued in it — very odd indeed. Moreover, I’m not sure they had a fix on the key. In any case, we have their commercial recording. And the group sang its signature encore — Biebl’s “Ave Maria” — accurately and movingly.

We may ask the question, “Why are the Chanticleer Christmas concerts sold out year after year?” The group is a top-notch musical ensemble, to be sure. Also to be sure: New York is a very populous city and the room at the Met Museum is pretty small. But there may be more to it than those things.

It could be that Chanticleer satisfies some spiritual hunger, or, if that’s too much, scratches some spiritual itch. Every December, they’re like a flower that sprouts through the crack of an aggressively secular culture — a culture of “holiday trees” or, worse, “seasonal conifers.” Chanticleer sings of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph with abandon, as though they could get away with it. And, gratifyingly, they can.