“Wearing a many-colored robe and his $16 gold-leaf crown, he goes about carrying a portable throne in one hand and a ‘banner of peace’ in the other, and the world on his shoulder—in the form of an inflatable globe.” Thus one West Virginia newspaper described Homer Tomlinson, “the most confident presidential aspirant these days . . . who expects to be elected by miracles . . . [and] regards himself as a serious contender.”1 Readers of the article may have wondered why Tomlinson sought the presidency since, as the paper pointed out, he already considered himself “King of All Nations.”
Clearly we can dismiss this individual as, sadly, psychotic.
Or was he?
Tomlinson, a perennial candidate from 1952 to 1968, was the leader of a no-nonsense church that frowned upon the use of lipstick, bobbed hairstyles, and wedding ceremonies while parachuting. Actually, not so much the last one.2
“Miss Ann Hayward . . . and Arno Rudolphi . . . were joined in marriage by Homer A. Tomlinson of the Church of God, Jamaica, Queens, as all three sat suspended in mid-air parachutes,” the New York Times reported in what may be the most unusual wedding announcement in that newspaper’s distinguished history. The event took place in 1940 at the New York World’s Fair and drew national attention. “At a signal from the minister,” an Ohio paper reported, “the wedding party was dropped to the ground.”3
Maybe Tomlinson was starting to lose (or had already lost) his grip—or maybe he was applying his professional skills. Prior to becoming a minister, he had worked in advertising and public relations in the 1920s—the era in which publicity stunts were becoming professionalized. A fox hunt on Fifth Avenue and a hoax reception for the queen of Romania were among such antics on behalf of particular clients or causes in New York during this time.4 Consequently, whether or not Tomlinson was psychotic was a question which, like that wedding ceremony, hung in the air for some time.
What was never a question, however, is that his presidential bids were viewed with ridicule. “Tomlinson Is Confident of Election by Miracle” was typical of the headlines in coverage of his candidacy—those headlines running the gamut from “Church of God Overseer to Run for President” to “What Homer Wants Is to Be King of U.S.”5 The chronology of that gamut, however, provides an insight into a subtle distinction in American attitudes toward religion that Tomlinson’s fringe campaigns amplified. Of the three headlines just cited, ridicule is absent in “Church of God Overseer to Run for President,” from Tomlinson’s 1950 campaign. The other two, which barely suppress their mirth at Tomlinson’s confidence in being elected by a miracle or his seeking to become America’s king, were from his 1960 campaign. The key to the distinction took place in between those years, when, in 1954, a wire service article reported, “Bishop Homer A. Tomlinson, robed and crowned for the occasion, today proclaimed himself ‘King of the World.’”6
Spiritual beliefs can be easy targets for ridicule. Seas getting parted, water turned into wine—the list could easily go on. The point at which ridicule commenced regarding the Tomlinson presidential campaigns reveals the extent to which most Americans respect the religious beliefs of others. That respect ends at the point where miraculous claims are made for present-day events.
For some, that point was reached in Tomlinson’s first campaign, in 1952, which is to say, prior to proclaiming himself King of the World in 1954. Right from the get-go, the Washington Post told readers, “Tomlinson appears pretty confident of his chances of election . . . based upon a prophecy in the Book of Daniel, which says that one of these days dominion of the whole earth will be given to the people of the saints of the Most High”—continuing with the tipping point—“though we cannot find anything that indicates specifically that it will happen in November 1952.” That this claim does not begin to match the enormity of the claim that one is God’s designated King of the World likely accounts for the Post then hedging its humor by adding, “Still, there are plenty of people who believe the Bible is a safer guide than . . . the Gallup Poll.”7
During Tomlinson’s 1952 campaign such jabs remained rare; most of the news coverage kept a straight face. “In Seeking Presidency, Bishop Will Fast 21 Days” headlined a Maryland news report upon Tomlinson’s announcing his candidacy. Under the headline “Bishop Runs for President,” a Texas newspaper suppressed any mirth in reporting, “Tomlinson will begin his campaign with a 21-day fast starting at midnight Sunday, after which he will make a 42-state tour.” Possibly on the verge, however, a Mississippi newspaper told readers, “He is taking only water and orange juice and black coffee, without sugar.”8 Did readers need to know how he takes his coffee, or was the reporter stirring in a teaspoon of absurdity?
Whether Tomlinson’s fast was a period of spiritual cleansing and reflection or an aspect of insanity, it got him a lot of publicity—not as much as the Republican’s nominee, Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, or the Democrat’s choice, Illinois governor Adlai Stevenson, but far more than any of the seventeen other candidates who managed to get press coverage that year.9
With Tomlinson’s 1954 announcement of his kingship, ridicule predominated, continuing through his 1956 and 1960 presidential campaigns, for which he toured the nation in kingly garb and a throne fashioned from an aluminum lawn chair. Typical media coverage: “The self-proclaimed ‘King of The World’ today crowned himself King of Iowa . . . on the steps of the statehouse, with an audience of two reporters, a photographer and a church representative.” This report came from a journalist whose story went nationwide via United Press International. The other journalist present, whose story went national via the Associated Press, reported, “He carried with him a 28-inch plastic globe of the world which he inflated with the kingly breath before assuming the throne. The new king’s world almost blew away in the stiff breeze, but he caught it in time to avert catastrophe.”10
Tomlinson did not confine his royal appearances to campaign events. After his 1954 self-coronation before congregants gathered in a Tennessee tobacco barn, he set out for London, where he drew attention to his reign in Hyde Park, then moved on to Paris, where the press reported on that city’s gendarmes prohibiting him from staging a ceremony in Napoleon’s tomb. In 1958 Tomlinson drew worldwide attention when he popped up in the Soviet Union, enthroned just outside the Kremlin, announcing his kingship to passersby. The Russians were so puzzled the authorities let him be.11 Clearly a cuckoo Amerikanski.
Except not entirely clearly. During his 1960 run for the White House, he admitted to one interviewer, “There may be some objection to my wearing robes and a crown. I know my wife objects.”12 Pretty lucid comment, not to mention amusing and endearing, for someone suspected of suffering from psychosis.
To another reporter, however, he said of his garb, “Would you rather I come as a soldier, gun in hand? This uniform I have is a robe of righteousness. It signifies a peaceful approach.”13
Well, no. The garb of a king does not signify peace nor, necessarily, righteousness; it signifies power. And the choice of campaigning in either kingly garb or military garb is a false dichotomy; he could also campaign, if he thought about it, in a suit and tie. Or, for that matter, sackcloth and ashes.
Apparently he did think about it. When Tomlinson again donned robe and crown for his 1964 presidential bid, his running mate, fellow bishop W. R. Rogers, campaigned in sackcloth and ashes, quite possibly indicating: message received.14 Which, if indeed the message was received by Tomlinson, casts further doubt on his living in a world all his own.
Moreover, even though kingly garb does not signify peace, turning swords in plowshares, as written in Isaiah, does. And Tomlinson did—literally, working with a blacksmith—in his 1952 campaign. As with his earlier parachute wedding and later with his kingship, the event drew nationwide press attention.15 Undeniably Tomlinson knew how to publicize.
That Tomlinson may have been crazy like a fox is further suggested by his reaction to being mocked. At a 1960 campaign stop in Arkansas to proclaim himself king of that state, a man stepped up with his pet monkey and crowned her Queen of Arkansas. “Tomlinson took the jibe good naturedly,” the press reported.16 Indeed journalists who interviewed Tomlinson never reported his being anything other than unexpectedly good-natured. In 1960 an Arkansas columnist told his readers that Tomlinson “turned out to be a most agreeable gentleman with a finely developed sense of humor—a quality I hadn’t expected to find in a man who considers himself King of the World.”17
In 1966 the highly regarded journalist, William Whitworth, interviewed Tomlinson for an extensive profile in the New Yorker. Describing his first impression, he wrote, “I was expecting to be greeted by a bodyguard or a State Overseer, or someone of the sort, but presently I saw in the distance a blue 1958 Chevrolet with a familiar figure at the wheel. The round, pink-face, the warm smile, and the large nose were clearly those of Bishop Tomlinson himself.”18 Of his parting impression, Whitworth wrote with greater affection, due in no small part to the self-awareness Tomlinson had displayed during the interview and now at their farewell, when the self-proclaimed King of the World said:
“They’ve accused me of being a publicity hound. But I’ve never done any of this from a sense of pride. You have to be meek. Because people can really laugh at you.” The Bishop sat in silence for a few seconds, and then, as I opened the door and got out, he abruptly became his old merry self. He leaned over to the window on my side of the car and said, “But I don’t care. It’s the work that matters. After all, what’s Homer?” He burst into laughter, and he was still smiling as he drove away.19
In the 1964 presidential election (the one that preceded Whitworth’s 1966 interview) depictions of Tomlinson had already begun to shift away from ridicule—and did so for the same reason they had previously shifted toward it. “Bishop Homer A. Tomlinson has given up his title as King of the World,” the Associated Press reported in 1963, “to promote what he called a ‘golden age’ free of strife.”20 Tomlinson additionally strove in that campaign to widen his base beyond his own congregants by changing the name of his party from Church of God (which had stirred resentment from Church of God congregations not affiliated with his) to the Theocratic Party.21
These actions didn’t entirely insulate Tomlinson from ridicule, but the mockery did shift from explicit insults to implicit innuendos, as when the Associated Press reported, “Seven adults and eight children attended the national convention of the Theocratic Party Saturday night.”22 But even these kinds of wisecracks became rare; the preponderance of the news coverage reverted to its pre-kingship mode of simply reporting facts, as typified by such headlines as “Theocratic Party Plans Clergy Cabinet,” “Theocratic Party Favors 10 Per Cent Income Tax,” and “Theocratic Candidates Campaign.”23
While separating religiously based prophecy and miracles from present-day events fended off depictions of Tomlinson as a kook, his faith-based campaign still left him vulnerable to criticism for being out of touch with the realities of the day. In the 1968 election, for example, he renewed his 1964 pledge to return the world to a strife-free Garden of Eden through the implementation of religious faith. A Minnesota editorial, reprinted in newspapers elsewhere, commented: “The prospect is pleasing until one contemplates what a modern-day garden might be like. There would be rides for the kids, of course. And cotton candy and popcorn vendors. There would be a tall metal-spike fence around it. And an 18-hole golf course nearby. The gates would lock at 10 p.m., but nobody would dare venture into the garden after dark anyway. And finally, as sure as the bishop makes little green apples, the highway engineers would run a freeway right down the middle.”24 Though no longer suggesting Tomlinson was out of his mind, the prevailing view now was that he was out of touch with the times.
Quite likely Tomlinson sensed it as well. During that campaign he had urged his supporters to back the reelection of Lyndon Johnson. But those who attended the Theocratic Party convention nominated Tomlinson instead. Not attending the convention was Tomlinson himself, who was in ill health.25 The press—now far more familiar with Tomlinson—reported, “The clever, stocky old clergyman, a one-time Madison Avenue advertising man with a flair for religious showmanship, doesn’t expect to win, but he says the campaign ‘will give me a pulpit for citing our goals.’”26 Not at all a statement one would expect from a psychotic.
Tomlinson’s 1968 candidacy—as he also seems very lucidly to have sensed—would be his last. He passed away one month after the election.
Even before changing the name of his political party to the Theocratic Party, Homer Tomlinson had advocated turning the United States into a theocracy. His 1952 platform consisted of the Ten Commandments along with two additional commandments: “This is My Beloved Son; hear ye him” and “Love one another.”27 In his 1960 campaign he declared that he would “change the United States government from a democracy to a theocracy.”28 And he told voters how he would effect this change: “America is ready for a king. These things run in cycles and we are ready now.”29
In this quest Tomlinson was addressing a deeper question that has caused conflicts throughout the history of the United States. Who is the ultimate authority: the government or God? It is a conflict that scholars have found embedded even in Genesis and Exodus.30 In the United States the question has been particularly troubling since the Constitution’s prohibition of an official religion confines God to less than certain authority. Tomlinson’s fringe candidacy reveals the extent to which Americans have resolved this constitutional uncertainty—that extent being, to borrow a phrase from a news report on Tomlinson’s campaign, “slightly less successful than a dog fight.”31