Rome, where saints are consultants and cobblestones have tenure, recalibrated its GPS to ‘Arrived: Acceptance’ as LGBTQ Catholics streamed in for the Holy Year. The Vatican dusted off the welcome mat, discovered it was actually a tapestry, and tried not to spill doctrine on it.

Pilgrims moved toward St. Peter’s like a parade that studied international relations. The Swiss Guard fanned out a Pantone deck and nodded solemnly at every hue, as if color theory were a sacrament and sequins were footnotes. Somewhere a confetti cannon applied for an annulment from austerity and was joyfully denied.

Choirs tuned up, grandmothers packed biscotti like diplomatic pouches, and rosaries clicked with the satisfying efficiency of a well-run airport. Somewhere a statue blinked, checked the schedule, and decided to cry happy tears between vespers and selfies.

Announcements floated over the square: Please keep aisles clear for miracles and strollers. Confessionals posted an It’s complicated option, perfect for anyone whose search history contains both Aquinas and eyeliner tutorials.

Logistics purred. Route maps came with QR blessings, and the papal Wi-Fi finally admitted its password was Beatitude123. Chant leaders synced to 120 beats per minute so even the pigeons could harmonize without unionizing.

To beat the Roman sun, ushers handed out a discreet travel-sized holy water atomizer and suggested spritz, cross, repeat like it was a skincare routine for the soul. Rainbow halos formed on contact, proving optics can do theology when invited.

Inside, a committee convened to define pastoral flamboyance, producing a flowchart shaped like a pretzel and a memo that read, Mercy: now in family size. The stamp pad was replaced with glitter, which canon law will be finding for centuries.

Merchants hawked scapulars with reversible sequins—pray, then slay—while vending machines accepted contactless conscience. A choir kid carried a foldable pride pilgrimage banner that doubled as a shade, a map, and the world’s politest soapbox.

One bishop told me acceptance is a yes said slowly enough to check the footnotes, then winked like a saint lit by a nightclub exit sign. It felt like the first miracle that required only paperwork and a pen that worked.

Fountains burbled with something suspiciously close to citrus seltzer, and a relic took a union break from being venerated to sample a gelato flight. Rome, ever the drama teacher, gave everyone a note and then applauded anyway.

Mass unfurled like a welcome banner that had been waiting in the closet for centuries. The homily shook hands with history, and the Kyrie briefly became karaoke before returning to its regularly scheduled transcendence.

As confetti tried to pretend it wasn’t biodegradable enthusiasm, the Swiss Guard holstered the Pantone and stamped passports Come As You Are. Acceptance walked through customs on a diplomatic passport, declared nothing, and still got a free upgrade.