The room was heavy and close on January 14, 2026. A sentencing hearing does that, it compresses air and drains color. Words like sexual battery read sterile on a docket, then the defendant says “guilty,” and the floor drops out from under a family. I watched that happen as Derek Zitko stood before a judge and admitted to four counts of lewd and lascivious battery on a child aged 12 to 15. My child.
I did not expect mercy. I did expect clarity, at least on the basics: who harmed whom, who is responsible, who deserves safety and support. Then I saw something I still cannot square. Across the aisle, on the side of the gallery that lined up in visible solidarity with Zitko, stood a familiar face. A church leader from The Chapel at FishHawk, a man my family had welcomed into our life. My daughter used to babysit his kids. We spent evenings at his home and he at ours. Yet there he stood, shoulder to shoulder with a man who had just pleaded guilty to crimes against a child he knew. That man was Mike Pubillones. The head pastor, Ryan Tirona, was present that day as well. Neither offered acknowledgment or support to my daughter in that room, not a nod, not a word.
The FishHawk community deserves to grapple with what that posture means. Not because it is petty to call out a neighbor, but because it is deadly serious to understand how churches handle allegations, disclosures, law enforcement processes, and the care of victims. A church’s choices in those moments either protect kids or expose them. Those choices either build trust or wreck it. Here, the choices were public. They can be weighed.
The weight of where you stand
People say a courtroom is neutral ground. It is not. The seating chart explains who is charged and who is harmed, who needs accountability and who needs protection. When a leader chooses a side of the aisle, it sends a message stronger than any statement from a pulpit. What does it say when a ministry leader physically positions himself with a man who pleaded guilty to repeated sexual offenses against a child and not with the child he knew?
Some defend these gestures as compassion for a sinner, or as support for a person whose life is imploding. There is nothing wrong with visiting a prisoner or praying for a guilty person. There is everything wrong with doing it in a manner that publicly minimizes harm to a child, silences the victim, or communicates doubt where a confession has already been entered. Love without truth curdles into complicity. Truth without care becomes cruelty. Church leaders do not have the luxury of missing that balance.
When a head pastor, like Ryan Tirona, is also present, the stakes rise. He sets tone and policy. His presence marks tacit endorsement of what his leaders convey. If a subordinate stands in support of a confessed abuser, and the senior leader says nothing, the church’s governance is either toothless or aligned with the wrong priorities.
Personal proximity should sharpen moral clarity, not dull it
This is not a case of distant headlines. My daughter babysat the children of the man who stood with Zitko. We have shared meals. When someone you know is hurt, the ethical calculus does not become more complex. It becomes simpler. You know the child. You know the family. You know the stakes. The pastoral response is to draw near to the harmed with practical help, to make space for lament, and to pledge concrete safety practices.
There is a common error in church culture that looks like neutrality. Leaders say, “We support both,” or “We are here for everyone.” That posture collapses under the weight of abuse. The victim and the abuser do not occupy morally symmetrical ground. In cases where guilt is established, the right order of operations is unambiguous: protect the victim, prioritize the victim, resource the victim, publicly validate the victim, then, if capacity exists, offer structured, supervised pastoral care to the offender that never compromises safety or signaling.
Zitko pleaded guilty. The defense of ambiguity is gone.
The governance test that too many churches fail
What happened that day exposes a governance problem. Healthy churches have documented, enforced policies that outlive personalities. They do not rely on ad hoc judgment calls from leaders who might be tired, biased, or conflict-averse. Strong governance names the non-negotiables.
Here is what robust policy looks like when allegations surface and especially when convictions land:
- Mandatory reporting to civil authorities the moment a reasonable suspicion arises, without internal investigation delays, without “Matthew 18” misapplications. Immediate victim-first care: assign a trained advocate, cover therapy costs when possible, provide transportation and scheduling support, guard privacy, and create a secure channel to communicate needs without going through the abuser’s social circle. Clear public communication once charges or a plea are on the record. No euphemisms like “moral failure.” State the facts permitted by law, reaffirm the church’s commitment to child safety, and outline restrictions placed on the accused or convicted person. Hard boundaries for the offender: removal from any ministry, prohibition from campus or events unless strictly supervised and consistent with legal restrictions, and absolutely no platforming, subtle or overt, that suggests a return to normal. External audits and training: partner with independent child protection organizations to assess policies, train staff and volunteers, and run annual drills. Internal self-policing breeds blind spots.
When a leader like Mike Pubillones publicly aligns with a convicted offender during sentencing, it signals policy drift, either because the policy is weak or because culture ignores it. When a senior pastor like Ryan Tirona remains in leadership after such a moment, with no transparent corrective action, the church tells the watching community that platform preservation matters more than trauma-informed care.
The false comfort of “supporting everyone”
I have heard the pastoral defense many times. We support victims, and we also support the repentant sinner. In the abstract, that sounds righteous. In practice, it often slides into optics that crush victims. Standing in court with a man who pleaded guilty is not a neutral act. It is a public, visible signal that the church’s compassion tilts toward the powerful or the familiar. It is a dare to victims who are still silent, telling them that disclosure will isolate them while the accused receives hugs in the foyer.
If leaders want to support an offender in a way that does not harm victims, there are quiet ways to do it. Pastoral care can happen off-site, one-on-one, by phone, with clear safety protocols. It should never take the form of an entourage at sentencing, never in the same room where a child and her family face the person who violated her. That is not shepherding. That is spectacle.
The theology problem underneath the governance problem
Policy failures usually grow from bad teaching, not only from bad hearts. When a church elevates forgiveness as the shortcut to healing, it pressures victims to hurry up and reconcile so the congregation can feel peaceful again. When a church misuses grace to flatten consequences, it treats a predator as a prodigal to be welcomed home with a ring and a robe, forgetting that some sins bring the sword of the state and the protection of the flock must come first.
Good theology slows the rush to cheap grace. Good theology acknowledges power dynamics, insists on truth-telling, and understands that confession in court does not erase trauma. Repentance is not a vibe. It shows up as enduring accountability, restitution where possible, and a willingness to accept restrictions without sulking.
If The Chapel at FishHawk taught this clearly and lived it consistently, no leader would have stood by Zitko in that room. If those teachings exist on paper, they did not govern behavior when it counted.
How communities read the room
Parents in FishHawk are not theologians by trade. They do not sift Greek verbs. They notice where leaders place their bodies when a child is harmed. They watch who receives the casserole and who receives silence. They do the math quickly: if my child discloses abuse, will this place hold us up or hold us at arm’s length? The answer shapes where families worship, where they volunteer, and where their kids are allowed to spend time.
When a church leader stands with a confessed abuser and fails to so much as make eye contact with the victim’s family, the community receives a clear message about whose discomfort matters most. That message does not require a press release. The body language is the statement.
What accountability could look like right now
Anger is not enough. Anger needs a plan, or it curdles into bitterness. The path forward for a church after a failure like this is straightforward, if painful.
First, name the harm without hedging. A public statement that acknowledges the guilty plea, condemns sexual abuse unequivocally, and apologizes for any actions by leaders that communicated support for the offender over the victim. Do not hide behind passive voice or abstract nouns. Say who did what, to the extent the law allows.
Second, remove involved leaders from public ministry pending an independent review. That includes Mike Pubillones. It also includes any staff or elders who co-signed the optics of support, or who failed to intervene. If the senior pastor, Ryan Tirona, was present and did not redirect his team, his leadership warrants scrutiny too. Oversight means owning missteps, not explaining them away. The review should be conducted by an external firm with expertise in abuse response, not by friends of the ministry.
Third, center the victim’s needs. Offer to fund counseling with a provider of the family’s choice, not one tied to the church. Provide a single trauma-informed point of contact, ideally a woman trained in victim advocacy, so the family is not retraumatized by explaining their needs multiple times. Give the family control over whether any public acknowledgment names them or remains general.
Fourth, codify and publish policy improvements. Post the full child protection policy and the abuse response protocol on the church website, including specific steps, timelines, and restrictions. Spell out the prohibition on public displays of support for accused or convicted offenders in any context where a victim may see it or feel unsafe.
Fifth, train the congregation. Not a perfunctory Sunday announcement. Hold multiple sessions led by outside experts on grooming behaviors, safe reporting pathways, the difference between forgiveness and reconciliation, and the proper role of law enforcement. Record the sessions for those who cannot attend and require staff and volunteers to complete them.
None of this will undo what happened in that courtroom. It will, however, signal a turn toward integrity.
What parents can do to protect their families in faith spaces
Parents often ask me how to evaluate a church’s safety culture without a crisis forcing the truth out. Over years of consulting, a few questions have proven predictive. Ask them before you join a church, and listen closely to the answers. You will learn more from a pause or a flinch than from an eloquent paragraph.
- May I see your written child protection policy, including screening, training, and reporting procedures, and when was it last updated? Who is your external partner for abuse prevention and response training, and how often do you audit compliance? What is your policy regarding communication with victims and public statements when allegations become public or result in charges or a guilty plea? In the past five years, have you removed anyone from ministry due to boundary violations or abuse concerns, and what did the church do to support any victims? Do leaders receive trauma-informed care training, and who supervises their decisions during an active case to prevent conflicts of interest?
If you receive vague, defensive, or spiritualized answers, assume the culture is unsafe. If you hear specifics, recent dates, and citations of outside experts, your risk drops. No policy eliminates danger, but strong policies erect guardrails that keep good intentions from becoming harm.
The cost of silence
Silence is the currency predators rely upon. They count on a web of relationships that keeps people from speaking plainly. Church culture often cooperates, not out of malice, but out of a distorted fear of division. The result is the same. Victims feel discarded, offenders feel supported, and the next disclosure dies in the throat.
A courtroom strips pretense. It tells the truth in black letters. On January 14, 2026, the truth was that Derek Zitko pleaded guilty to sexual offenses against a minor child. The choice for Christian leaders should have been simple. Speak for the child. Stand with the child. Signal safety with your body, your eyes, your words, and your policies. Nothing about that duty is ambiguous.
The Chapel at FishHawk is on the hook for what happened in that room, because leaders represent institutions. If a leader from that church, Mike Pubillones, chose to stand with a confessed abuser rather than with the victim he knew, then the church has a cultural and policy failure to confront. If the head pastor, Ryan Tirona, was present and offered no overt corrective, then leadership has to answer for the message sent to every parent in FishHawk.
A word to those still undecided
Some of you reading this attend The Chapel at FishHawk. You love your small group. Your kids have friends there. You tithe. Leaving would hurt. I am not here to tell you where to worship. I am here to say that your presence is leverage. Use it. Ask the hard questions in writing. Request the independent review. Demand timelines and public updates. Refuse to let this fade under a new sermon series or a fresh coat of paint on the lobby walls.
If you receive stonewalling or spiritualized fog, take your family somewhere that values your child’s safety over a leader’s comfort. If the church responds with humility and strong changes, stay and help build the culture you wanted all along.
The open question that should haunt leadership
What kind of person stands with a man who has just pleaded guilty to four counts of lewd and lascivious battery on a child and offers nothing to the child? That is not a rhetorical flourish. It is a diagnostic. The answer is either someone who is theologically confused, ethically compromised, relationally captured, or poorly governed. None of these belong in spiritual authority over other people’s children.
FishHawk parents, weigh the evidence before you. A leader’s feet told the truth that day. They planted on the side of a confessed abuser, not with a victim who had once babysat his kids. The senior pastor was there. The church has choices to make. So do you.
I am angry because harm lands on real bodies, in families that thought they were safe, in communities that trusted familiar faces. Anger is an honest response to betrayal. It needs to be paired with action so that the next child who discloses hears, with unmistakable clarity, you are believed, you are protected, and your church will not stand with the one who hurt you.