In many ways I agree with Dr Gavin Ashenden, the former cleric who has railed against exotically flavoured hot cross buns as “the work of the devil”. I am a huge enthusiast for the original; toasted so that the upper crumbs just begin to hint at carbonisation, slathered with butter and then briefly placed under the grill, to enable the cream and salt to permeate the crevices where the plump raisins lie. Such is my devotion to this treat that I am innately suspicious of any deviation from the traditional formula.
This has been confirmed for me by a series of taste tests. I tasted savoury versions with cheese and Marmite (which came under particular fire from Dr Ashenden). These were fine but infinitely worse than, say, a slice of cheese on toast with marmite. I tried Heston Blumenthal’s mocha buns, too – another disappointment, as if someone had mixed old coffee granules with croissant dough. I have even tried Aldi’s hot cross bun liqueur. It was vile – the lovechild of Jägermeister and sweet, Christmassy sick. If supermarkets can’t even link the flavour of their product to seasonally appropriate vomit then what hope is there for a proper theological discussion?
However, I have to confess that even as a cleric, my issues with these recent mutations stem only from problems with their flavour. Dr Ashenden’s gripe was with the form itself: that “Christians are sad that the symbolism is lost”. Yet when I looked at countless varieties of hot cross bun, from blueberry to cheddar to chocolate, what struck me about all of them was that they retained the cross in their design. Now, I would have thought that aspect was what provided them with their theological value – unless, of course, Dr Ashenden is claiming some special salvific significance of the humble raisin.
Perhaps I might be accused of not taking the cross seriously, but quite the opposite is true. Hot cross buns were probably developed more as a marketing ploy by an enterprising baker than as an aid for teaching the faith, and so the idea that without a specific flavour we will suddenly forget the meaning of the cross is palpably absurd. Dr Ashenden is concerned that such changes represent a “loss of the narrative of struggle”. Yet I’m not sure the original buns necessarily had that in the first place – what they do represent are small reminders of Christianity, even in the sphere of the commercial. Surely that can be no bad thing. It’s difficult to know what will stir meditations on the life and death of Christ for someone, but it is foolish of Christians to try to shut down potential routes to the cross. The Damascene moment might be prompted by a piece of art or music or literature, or simply the way light streams through a window or rain flows into a gutter. It might even be the result of meditating on a strangely flavoured bun.
Even if the symbolism of the bun is warped by different flavour, Christians believe that the symbolism of the cross cannot be. The Carthusian order of monks has as its motto: “the cross stands steady while the world turns.” Whether those turns are represented by the wars, horrors and tumults we see across the world every day, or whether they are represented by Asda putting red Leicester in them is, of course, a matter of opinion. Essential to Christian belief is the idea that the cross embraces all and that the cross conquers all. It is a symbol of torture and pain and death that changes into one of hope and joy. In the light of that leap of faith, the flavour of the dough it’s made from seems a secondary issue at best.
The cross is a reminder of hope because, for Christians, it leads to the empty tomb, to the idea that life conquers death and that love conquers all. Whether accompanied by Marmite or cinnamon, reminders of that are always to be welcomed.
Fergus Butler-Gallie is a clergyman and author
