HARRISBURG, Pa. — The parking situation tells part of the story.

Volunteers in neon yellow wave red wands to bring order to the traffic snarl spilling out in the street, untangling gridlock and directing a steady stream of cars into the garage adjacent to the Life Center Church. The driver of one diesel dually pulls over and tries to quickly lower a giant Trump flag. The banner would scrape the concrete ceiling, but by the time he reaches the front of the line, his pickup is redirected to an overflow lot. Doors open in two hours. The world’s richest man won’t arrive for another three. The 400-car garage is full.

There are 19 Teslas, including five Cybertrucks, parked inside next to many more minivans, trucks, and sedans. A handful of Toyota Prius are tucked sheepishly in their spaces, but most everyone else burned gasoline to get here for Elon Musk.

They aren’t the typical superfans, the original ones who bought his electric vehicles as liberal status symbols. No, these are Republicans. And Musk is the closest celebrity they have who approaches Oprah Winfrey-levels of influence.

The star power can be felt as Musk walks into the sanctuary, and so can the thumping bass. Staff from his super PAC have set the church stereo to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” He jumps around like a 1970s punk rocker, and the bright lights illuminate his silhouette like Gen. George Patton in front of a gigantic American flag, and the heavy metal cuts right before the chorus that blares:

“Exit light / Enter night / Take my hand / We're off to never-never land.”

For the next two hours, here in the capital city of the state both sides believe will decide the 2024 presidential election, the billionaire will share with the congregation parts of his clever plan for an efficient America if only they will return former President Trump to the White House. But first, the Oprah moment.

“I think actually Pennsylvania is really the lynchpin in this election,” the naturalized American says in his start-and-stop gait. “How Pennsylvania goes is how the election goes,” he warns before reminding the audience to register to vote. Musk has said that the coming election could mean the end of democracy if Trump doesn’t win. So, to gin up excitement, he vows to give $1 million once a day until the election to a randomly selected voter.

A hush falls over the 1,500 people who just passed through metal detectors as Musk explains his one and only requirement for the sweepstakes: Voters must sign his petition to support the First and Second Amendments. Then a roar erupts when the first winner is handed a giant check like the ones they give to professional golfers for winning big-money tournaments. The billionaire gives another million away the next day to a Pittsburgh woman who calls it “the surprise of a lifetime.” Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro, a Democrat and runner-up in the Veepstakes, later calls the free money “deeply concerning” and potentially illegal.

Those details are left for lawyers to sort out later. This evening, Musk is basking in the adoration of the MAGA faithful, who are genuinely thrilled not just to hear from a real celebrity but to interact with him in the flesh.

Two microphones are set up, and long queues immediately form. Musk enters like a rockstar. He spends the rest of his time answering questions in a routine reminiscent of other conservative influencers like Ben Shapiro or Jordan Peterson. There is no script or screening, and the first person to the mic suggests Musk buy the Pittsburgh Pirates to rescue that franchise from mediocrity. Musk doesn’t mention baseball. He does say he is “encouraged” and that his reception in the state has been “heartwarming.” The obstacle he sees is overcoming the apathy of those “who sometimes feel like that the vote doesn’t matter or it’s all rigged.”

He has stepped aside from his business ventures, parachuting into swing states, to tell those tempted to sit out this November because “if there’s any election in their lifetime that they’re going to vote in, they should vote in this one.” Everyone seems to agree, but a serious purpose doesn’t stop the town hall from turning into a variety hour.

Other exchanges border on the absurd, like the suggestion that humanity is just a computer simulation (Musk doesn’t rule it out),an invitation to meet an unnamed spiritual guru (Musk politely declines), and a half-joking request for a free Cybertruck (Musk laughs). He takes more than two dozen questions in all. It is Twitter (or, rather, X) come to life.

A spontaneous order governs the evening, not a moderator. Ask a meandering question, or make a speech, and the crowd will ratiothe offending party in real-time. More than once, hecklers admonish those who dawdle to “Ask the question!” One point of personal privilege always gets a pass though: extended gratitude.

Conservatives believe that their backs can’t get any closer to the wall. They see adversaries everywhere, from colleges to corporations, and they feel they’re at risk of losing a culture war they did not start. The one bright spot: X. More than one voter steps to the microphone to thank Musk for buying Twitter and “saving free speech.” It only cost $44 billion.

What Musk wants from them in return is obvious: their votes in support of Donald Trump, preferably before Election Day.

His super PAC emphasizes the importance of mail-in-ballots, and some gathered here have kicked the GOP stigma about voting by mail. Republican state Sen. Greg Rothman said before the event that he voted early for the first time. Life can be unpredictable, and many of the newly minted Musketeers like hedging against that uncertainty. Plus, Rothman explained, “me not being there is less time in line for someone else.”

What Musk wants from a GOP presidency, and what led him to leverage his empire to get one, is a bit more opaque. When asked about the proposed government efficiency commission, an idea first floated by Musk and later adopted by Trump, the businessman falls back on generalities about “the strangulation by over-regulation” at the hands of faceless bureaucrats.

He reports that he has become an apostle for limited government in deep-blue Silicon Valley. “You don’t even need to be altruistic. You’ve just got to think long-term and say, if America fails, what good is your business? It doesn’t matter,” he says, recounting those conversations. “America must be strong, and the central pole that holds up the tent of Western civilization must be firm as an oak.”

Altruism alone didn’t move Musk from zero to one, though. He was red-pilled, a metaphor borrowed from the Matrix movies and popular among the online right for choosing to see the truth. It was the Democratic Party that fueled his start-up in conservatism. He says as much.

Musk harbors a unique dissatisfaction with how the current administration interacted with his empire, particularly Tesla. “To be sort of cold-shouldered like that for no reason,” he recalls of how the White House snubbed the company from an EV summit shortly after President Biden’s inauguration, “it’s like, what’s the deal?” The experience, he adds, was “not cool.” The same goes for the rejected SpaceX bid to provide rural broadband.

Critics will note the overlap between the various Musk businesses and the federal government. A recent analysis by the New York Times found that his companies were promised $3 billion across nearly 100 different contracts last year with a veritable alphabet soup of three-letter agencies. Supporters will reply that this is a bargain for taxpayers because the entrepreneur undeniably provides the state with services it can’t get elsewhere. They also point out that his big customer, the government, is simultaneously suing him for not hiring enough refugees.

But his crusade is also personal as Musk explained during an interview with the Daily Wire. “I was tricked into doing this,” he said of agreeing to gender-transition surgery for one of his children during the pandemic. “I lost my son, essentially. They call it ‘deadnaming’ for a reason. The reason they call it ‘deadnaming’ is because your son is dead.”

He offers an alternative on stage: “We should tell kids, if you’re confused, that is okay. It’s like coming of age.” The parents in the audience nod as Musk briefly fields a question about how the Department of Education should leave the issue alone and quit with “the propaganda.”

Not a natural public speaker, Musk is prone to bouts of stuttering, and no one cares. The crowd finds his quirks authentic and charming. When one woman introduces herself as autistic, he enthusiastically replies, “Welcome to the club!” When a man suggests torching red tape with a flamethrower, he gleefully imagines “a bonfire of nonsense regulations.”

It is easy to make fun of Musk, minus the fact that the nation relies on Tesla for vehicles, SpaceX for tickets into space, and Starlink for the satellites to keep Ukrainian soldiers in the field connected to the Pentagon. Ridicule the Tony Stark routine all you want, Pennsylvania Sen. John Fetterman warned his party, but take this man seriously. “Democrats kind of make light of it, or they make fun of him jumping up and down and things like that,” Fetterman told the New York Post. “And I would just say that they are doing that at our peril.”

Colin Donough provides a case study. The college freshman will soon vote for the first time and hadn’t made up his mind about who to support. Then he heard from Musk. “It’s hard to know who actually cares about us when you’re so high up in power and money,” Donough says of the businessman with a net worth six times greater than the Pennsylvania state budget. “After hearing him tonight, I believe he is on our side.”

Real celebrity has become a rarity on the political right. Democrats enjoy a near-monopoly on A-list celebrities, while Republicans often settle for stars who either fell from grace or never became household names. This makes Musk a big fish, and conservatives love their new champion.

“Thank you for being our Braveheart,” says Mark Clarke, a local insurance agent who gets a turn at the microphone toward the end of the night.

“Well, I hope I don’t have the same ending as Braveheart,” the Tesla tycoon quips, referencing William Wallace, the Scottish warrior with an eponymous feature film and horrific ending.

A voice from the crowd cries out in all seriousness, “Freedom!” – William Wallace’s (or, at least, Mel Gibson’s) last line in the Oscar-winning movie. An amused Musk is all bravado and elongated vowels as he bellows back the same in pantomime. A little levity isn’t out of bounds, even while tiptoeing around Armageddon. That’s what the magnate thinks is at stake in his battle with “what I just call the machine.”

“The thing that scares the system, that scares the machine, is that Donald Trump is not a puppet. He’s a real person, and he’s not beholden to anyone,” Musk says of the other Republican celebrity with a sizeable but still much smaller bank account. Hence the assassination attempts. And the giggles.

Democrats were not amused when Musk joked online last month that “no one is even trying” to assassinate Vice President Kamala Harris. They condemned the attempt at humor as “irresponsible.” Musk later deleted the tweet. But inside the church sanctuary, the bit kills.

“I meant it as a joke that no one’s even bothering to try to kill Kamala because there’s no point. There’s no point. Just get another puppet,” he tells the audience before both reiterating that he is “not suggesting someone should try to kill her” and doubling down that the hypothetical political murder would not matter in real life because “assassinating a puppet is pointless.”

There is no outrage from the flock, only belly laughs.

“Our civil and religious liberties are at stake in this election,” Life Center executive pastor John Leach says before the lights go down. A bit of leeway in pursuit of common ground, he tells me, is not a vice but rather a prudent calculation. “Anybody we can find common ground within our value system,” reasons the minister who left his vacation early to welcome Musk to the church, “we will try to walk together with unless they are working against our values.”

There is no judgment from the clergy tonight, but despite some of the shared values, the libertarian-leaning celebrity is also very much a libertine. This is no immediate problem. After all, he reasons, “We are not voting for him to be our pastor.”

Come Sunday services, lead pastor Charles Stock jokingly reassures his dearly beloved that they burned incense to atone for the heavy metal and grunge music that played the night before in that Holy place. He then offers a primer from the pulpit on the principles Christians should consider before voting. These include religious liberty, biological sex, and abortion, make-or-break issues familiar to most evangelicals everywhere. A fifth is border security.

Musk does not subscribe to these views exactly, but there is enough overlap to resonate with Vinny Sakore, a tech entrepreneur who says he was banned from Twitter during the pandemic for retweeting an article questioning the efficacy of the COVID-19 vaccine. “That was terrifying to me,” Sakore said of the experience and what he sees as the broader progressive agenda generally.

“I’m worried for my children – that they won’t have the ability to choose and practice their own faith,” added Sakore, an immigrant who came to the U.S. decades ago. He warned that the “precedent is there” for these fears, pointing beyond the church closures during the pandemic: “Just look at Europe.”

To keep that from happening in the conservative estimation, to save what Musk refers to as the “tent pole” of Western civilization, Trump must win Pennsylvania. Harrisburg and surrounding Dauphin County are a good place to start. More than a bellwether, it was ranked by one analysis in 2016 as the most representative county in the entire country. Hillary Clinton carried it that year by less than 4,000 votes but lost the state that year. Biden won the county in 2020 by 12,000 votes, then the whole Keystone State and the White House.

Musk wasn’t on the stump in those years. His empire and influence have grown since then, including in Harrisburg, where there are four Supercharger stations within a 30-minute drive of the church.

Michael Whorley, the owner of a local landscaping company, likens the celebrity entrepreneur to the former president.

“Trump has so much money that he could be just doing whatever he wanted, but he’s given the time to us, and there’s got to be something bigger,” Whorley says halfway through the town hall. As he heads for the exit, he adds, “I mean for Elon to say that this could be the last election, well, that should shake you, man.” He was only leaving early, he explained, “to beat the traffic.”