FRISCO, TX—There are two ways to get something for free in America, both of which are arguably inferior to paying: a) have sponsors pay for it, which means you’ll spend at least as much time being bludgeoned with advertising as you do enjoying said thing; or b) have the government pay for it, which of course means you’ve already involuntarily paid. And then we all know that “free” events are, in practical terms, nothing of the kind: if it’s worth paying $20 to park and $4 for a soft drink, it’s probably worth another twenty for a ticket.

Celebrate Freedom, an annual outdoor Christian music festival sponsored by my childhood cultural life source, Dallas’ 94.9 FM KLTY, is regularly trumpeted as the largest free concert in America. But this year’s event was, partially on account of its move to no-man’s-land in Frisco, Texas, neither large nor free. Attendance flagged dramatically from the 200,000 who once upon a time spent their 4th of July weekend at Southfork Ranch, the spring training home of the Dallas Cowboys, watching Audio Adrenaline, dcTalk, Plus One, Rachael Lampa, Stacie Orrico, and other “greats” perform in the brutal Texas heat. Celebrate Freedom 2008, set at the shiny Pizza Hut Park and for the second time featuring herd evangelist Luis Palau, announced its hugeness and its freeness from the moment I arrived at the gate—from the volunteers insisting that my sister throw away her water bottle to the banner advertisements plastered over virtually every square atom of the soccer complex’s surface area.

I spent the event’s first day an invisible eyewitness, meandering through a mostly-empty stadium dotted with dads, moms, babies and high schoolers (noticeably absent was anyone over the age of eighteen). I never made it to Celebrate Freedom back when I would have cared to go, when I would have heard of every band and known every song. Now, I typically avoid Christian events that tend to grab two big fistfuls of one’s collar and shake vigorously, crying out for a cynical deconstruction. And since the easiest approach would be to make the obvious jokes about the milquetoast music and Home Shopping Network theology, I resisted composing any one-liners before I had seen it all for myself. I didn’t think anyone would care enough for me to liveblog from the event’s GodTube internet café, so what follows is a timeline of Friday night’s events (Saturday’s lineup was canceled on account of a violent electrical storm).

6:20 p.m. My sister and I decide against carpooling (hey, we’re Texans) and each take a vehicle to Pizza Hut Park. We each pay $20 for a prime parking space that will allow us a quick exit onto the Dallas North Tollway.

6:25 p.m. A gate attended searches Katy’s purse, shaking his head at the half-full Aquafina bottle he finds. How dare we try to avoid spending $4 on bottled water! How would the sponsors feel?!

6:27 p.m. Painful screeching comes from the direction of the bowl stadium we’re about to enter. Covering our ears and shouting at other bystanders, we discover that a band called This Beautiful Republic is on stage. The stage that, by the way, is flanked on each side by two brand-new, sticker-bearing SUVs, which presumably stand for one of America’s primary definitions of the term “freedom.” While looking for a way to get from the upper concourse to the stadium floor, I decide that screamo music is just as grating live as it is on record.

6:30 p.m. After a few words from “our sponsors,” delivered both by live mouths and by two ginormous JumboTrons, Dizmas, which are about what AFI would be if its acronym stood for “All Friendly and Impish-like,” take the stage. Despite the Dizmas’ efforts to inspire dancing and hand-clapping, the crowd observes lifelessly, with most of their derrieres parked in lawn chairs. I blame the awkwardness of attending a rock festival with one’s parents and 8-month-old sister—and maybe the blinding sun—for the largely junior-high crowd’s lethargy. After four or five nearly indistinguishable numbers, I’ve already had enough and head for the outer concourse.

7:00 p.m. As I rest my brain and chat with kids from the Criswell College, situated on the upper level at the opposite end of the stadium, I take in the truly dreadful sounds of the acoustic-ish worship duo Connersvine. Ever wondered what would happen if, in some twisted turn of fate, somebody decided that ripping off Casting Crowns would be a funny joke? Well wonder no more. Hunter Smith should definitely stick to football (he’s currently on the roster of the Indianapolis Colts, perhaps the only remotely cool thing about Connersvine). I take the opportunity to spend $3 on a bottle of water, and head back down as they close the set urging us, in that strained, breathless voice worship leaders like so much, to “just make this a place of worship now.” The JumboTron cameras instantly single out the raised hands and closed eyes. I’m struck, and will be again, at some Christians’ spectacular inability to judge the timeliness or appropriateness of a given activity. In this case, Hunter’s exhortation no more turns the banner-decked soccer stadium into a “place of worship” than my fuming monologues turned the Dallas North Tollway into an exclusive Bat Tunnel.

7:20 p.m. Another mind-numbing barrage of marketing messages that is starting to loop—meaning that just in the hour and half I’ve been here, that guy has been on the stage saying those very words, and those very commercials have run on the screens several times. Sometimes, like in the New York subway tunnels, I love advertising. Others, like now, I love it not.

7:30 p.m. My sister calls to make sure I’m on the floor to hear Shane & Shane, another native-Texan duo with a fondness for the acoustic guitar. Their album Carried Away was one of the last Christian records I ever bought. They’re out-of-shape guys with baseball caps, shorts and flip-flops, and blow the previous acts away with their clear voices, extra-tight harmony, and the careful, tasteful accompaniment of their backing band (yes, everyone here is a four-piece band. It’s like the event planners told people, “What?! You’re a duo?! A solo artist?! That is sparseness not befitting the largest concert in the world! You will have no less than four musicians on stage, even if we have to bring in extras!”) No less than five bombshell blondes scatted throughout the crowd raise their hands fervently.

8:00 p.m. Phil Wickham, a guy I’ve never been extremely nice to but who’s music I can’t help liking, immediately wins the Best Dressed award upon taking the stage. (Black vest over a classy white dress shirt and black skinny jeans). He launches into “Desire,” singing just as well as he does on record. For as Jesus-y as his Cannons album is, Wickham is surprisingly focused on his showmanship, at least for the first few songs. He slams around on his guitar, introduces himself in tone of feigned gravitas, and encourages raucous audience participation. “After Your Heart,” one of his best songs, is almost as towering as the recorded version, though Wickham doesn’t have quite the endless supply of breath to expend on the song’s gapless phrases. He dramatizes each song with his intense manner and fey affect, and his worship spiel isn’t quite as insufferable as others I’ve already heard. Shadows deepen over the stadium as he plays “True Love,” and the frenetic stage lights finally begin to cast soft glows over the audience. In perhaps the most artistic moment of the night, a stage camera man shoots from behind Wickham, capturing his silhouette against the sunset as a bird glides past.

8:22 p.m. Knowing the Luis Palau segment is up next, my companions and I make a quick exit to the outer concourse, situating ourselves in a makeshift peanut gallery—the top row of the stadium’s back wall, facing the stage. The three of us are perfect stand-ins for Simon, Randy, and Paula—except maybe our Paula knows better than any of us what she’s talking about. Having attended a Luis Palau crusade in my late hometown, Washington D.C., I know what we’re in for. The on-site theology experts (students from the nearby Criswell College booth) also lurk near the top of the wall, eager to pounce upon what is certain to be a circus of heresy and general evangelical embarrassment. We collectively try to feel bad, but fail utterly.

8:40 p.m. We find ourselves talking and tuning out the Palau “sermon,” pausing every few moments to catch a gratuitously sensational illustration or wince-inducing exhibition of circular logic (choice example: “Love is from God because God is love.”Sure it’s a loose paraphrase of 1 John 4:7, but in this context, is absurdly trite). At one point, my sister pauses mid-sentence to apologize for her inattention: “I was trying to at least catch his main points, but he clearly doesn’t have any.” She’s right: just like last time, Palau well exceeds his time limit spewing a random, repetitive mixture of “all for just $19.95!”promises of peace and comfort in Jesus, anti-abortion anecdotes, and calls for sexual abstinence. One Criswell friend yells in our ears: “Don’t have sex until you’re married and get saved!“The obviously already-Christian crowd is led through the ABC’s of salvation (“admit, believe, confess”) and re-accept Christ on the count of three. They are then instructed to text—text—their decision to a number that glows on the JumboTron.

We head back down into the crowd to get positioned for Sanctus Real, and shake our heads in dismay. I marvel at how little I identify with things that most evangelicals see as everyday occurrences, wonder if that’s good or bad, and go back to swallowing my gag reflex.

8:57 p.m. The atmosphere is growing (blessedly) more appropriate for a rock concert. It’s now completely dark, the smoke is visible, the lights are cued, and a thick crowd of young people is pressed against the stage. Parents are still there, but they’re somewhere on the outskirts of the mob.

9:03 p.m. Sanctus Real take the stage to a rowdy crowd reaction, and it’s clear why they stacked the end of the night with the heavier weights. Frontman Mark Hammitt looks uncannily like Chris Tomlin, and guitarist Chris Rohman (the most convincing musician of the evening) strongly resembles a composite of the three Jonas Brothers. Sanctus are the first to be surrounded by a dazzling light show, modest compared to the best I’ve seen, but one that earlier audiences could have definitely used. (Dizmas, for example, would have seemed infinitely more cool in this time slot). Hammit’s voice is deliciously raspy, his singing top-rate, and his lyrics even more lame than they usually seem. The band inexplicably leads off with the lackluster “Face of Love”—eschewing their rocking hits from Fight the Tide and fine numbers from their recent We Need Each Other (come on guys, can’t we do better on the titles?!). Rohman bends almost to the floor slamming the opening riff of “I’m Not Alright,” an exciting moment, but the band leaves the stage without touching obvious crowd-point-getters like the new “Turning on the Lights” and oldies like “The Fight Song.” Laaaaame.

9:28 p.m. We’ve been increasingly surrounded by junior-highers in Stellar Kart t-shirts. The anticipation is building for the happy, showy pop-punk foursome, and they get the loudest screams of the night upon taking the stage.

9:45 p.m. We unfortunately discover the stage clock, which indicates Stellar Kart have sixteen more minutes to play. From then on, the red ticker is all we’re watching. The band isn’t bad, but neither are they good or even slightly remarkable. Their set drags on and on. We do a lot of texting and whispering, acting more like the junior-highers than the real-life ones next to us. I silently hope the David Crowder Band will salvage the profoundly lackluster impression I’ve gotten so far. I need something nice to say.

10:05 p.m. Stellar Kart finally get their junk in the trunk, and are replaced, to our abject dismay, by Andrew Palau. He’s more articulate and grounded than his hyperactive father, but his pleas to the disinterested crowd feel pathetic and again, manifestly ill-timed. Even though he’s yelling and swinging his Bible, I can barely hear him over the hum of chattering kids and the clatter of their texting. I focus on his five-minute “play clock,” which expires unheeded, then hang my head as more record-keeping cards are distributed to those who maybe might have somehow thought about making a decision for Christ. My sister and friend converse loudly through the prayer of salvation, prompting jabbing looks from the surrounding meditators. (Turns out they didn’t realize a prayer was happening.)

10:18 p.m. As brain-weary and cynical as I expected to be, I try to be excited about the David Crowder Band, who are reported to be pretty electric live. They open with an old, pre-A Collision number that’s simultaneously hokey and classic. Led by the frightful-looking Crowder, who speaks in an entirely fake accent, they sound sharp and together, but unfortunately not much more inspired than their predecessors. I’ve largely overcome my initial disappointment with Remedy, the Crowder Band’s electro-rock latest record, and am eager to hear “Can You Feel It?”or “Neverending” They closest they come to those fine numbers is “Foreverandever, Etc,”one of the marginally energetic rockers from Collision. On the other hand, the hand-clapping, banjo twang of “I Saw the Light” is more eclectic and inspired than any song that’s been played tonight.

On the whole, Crowder’s approach to worship eclipses his rivals for its inobtrusiveness. During “Foreverandever,” for example, he leads the crowd in an “80’s clap,” then observes that someday this sort of enthusiasm will never end after only a decade. His focus is excitement about future glory, a true understanding of Kingdom, rather than the individualistic, emotional me-and-God approach of much modern worship.

I decide to risk missing one of the coveted Remedy tracks in favor of avoiding the certain traffic disaster that would commence in a matter of minutes. As I climb the stairs, looking down at the crowd, surrounded by empty seats, I can’t help but feel I’m coming up for breath—making a blessed exit, a sweet escape. I don’t think I’ve ever pretended less or felt this distanced from people I once share a supposedly spiritual connection. There’s something of a sad nostalgia about it, but it’s eclipsed entirely by the sense of sweet relief. Freedom!

David Sessions is the editor of Patrol. He may be reached at editor@patrolmag.com.