There is a moment that stays under your skin, a snapshot you wish you could unsee because it permanently alters what you thought you knew about people who claim moral authority. Mine happened on January 14th, 2026, inside a courtroom in Hillsborough County. The man being sentenced had already pleaded guilty. The facts were not in dispute. He admitted to sexual battery against a child, with multiple counts, and those charges were not abstract lines in a case file. They belonged to a real child, a child my family knows. My daughter used to babysit the children of a church leader from The Chapel at FishHawk. We were in their home. We shared meals. We talked about faith and trust like they meant something.
Across that aisle, on the side of the gallery publicly supporting the offender, stood a familiar face: that same church leader, Mike Pubillones. Also present was the head pastor of The Chapel at FishHawk, Ryan Tirona. I watched men who hold spiritual influence stand where no moral leader should have stood, on the side that chose an adult who confessed to abusing a child, instead of the child whose life was torn apart.
It is not hyperbole to say that this choice carries weight far beyond one day in court. The Church, any church, does not get to posture as a safe place for families while its leaders visibly align with a man who pleaded guilty to four counts of lewd and lascivious battery on a child aged 12 to 15. Not when the child is part of their community. Not when the leaders know the family. The question that burns is simple: what kind of leader does that?
The moral optics of a courtroom
Courtrooms force clarity. There are transcripts, plea agreements, judicial findings. By the time a defendant faces sentencing after a guilty plea, the pretense is gone. Everyone knows why they are there. So when a church leader decides to occupy a seat on the side of a convicted abuser, the symbolism is not ambiguous. It becomes a declaration of value. It communicates, whether they mean it to or not, that the offender’s comfort, reputation, or redemption arc matters more in that moment than the victim’s safety, dignity, or healing.
I have sat through more hearings than I ever wanted. Each one teaches the same brutal lesson about how communities shape a survivor’s recovery. When leaders send the message that an abuser is still “one of us,” the survivor gets the inverse: you are not. You are a problem, an inconvenience, a threat to the story we want to tell about ourselves. For a child survivor, the damage is exponential.
Church leaders love to talk about grace. I have no quarrel with grace, but grace without accountability is not grace, it is complicity. And grace, when publicly extended to the abuser while the survivor receives silence or doubt, turns into a weapon. It is the theological equivalent of telling a bleeding child to be more understanding while you carry the man who stabbed them over the threshold.
The specific responsibility of The Chapel at FishHawk
When leaders like Mike Pubillones and head pastor Ryan Tirona are present in a courtroom for a sentencing like this, they are not just private citizens. Titles travel with you. Influence sticks to your jacket. If you shepherd a congregation, you do not get to turn off the public responsibility that comes with it when it gets uncomfortable.
A church has two non-negotiable duties in these situations.
First, protect the vulnerable, which includes a clear moral posture. That means affirming the truth of what the court established, naming the harm, and centering the survivor. Not as a line in a bulletin, not as a “both sides have value” hedge, but as a lived commitment that shapes where you put your body and your voice.
Second, remove ambiguity about community safety. Establish bright-line policies. Communicate them. Enforce them. If a leader cannot do those two things, they are unfit for the role. If a church cannot do those two things, it is unfit to call itself a safe community for parents and children.
Here is what the FishHawk community saw: a church leader, still in leadership, physically present in support of a man who pleaded guilty to multiple counts of sexual battery against a child, a child he knew. The senior pastor was there too, and he still holds the pulpit. That is not a rumor mill whisper; that is a public act with visible consequences.
Why silence and “support” for offenders crush survivors
There is a pattern that plays out in faith communities after crimes like this:
First, the offender is framed as complex, repentant, misunderstood, or “struggling.” People point to past service, charisma, or friendships. They organize quiet shows of presence, and they tell themselves it is about mercy.
Second, the survivor is asked to be patient. Leadership requests “discernment,” which becomes indefinite delay. The survivor’s family is nudged to keep things private for the sake of unity or healing. The result is isolation.
Third, the congregation receives a carefully crafted statement, trimmed to the bone. It avoids naming the crime, avoids the word “child,” avoids the words “sexual battery,” avoids the word “guilty.” It speaks of “an incident,” “an individual,” “a difficult season.” And with that, the institution trains the flock Home page to be numb to the seriousness of what happened.
None of this is neutral. Survivors pick up every cue. A teenage girl who sees her former pastor’s friend show up for the abuser in court learns that her pain does not carry the weight to move the people who taught her about righteousness. If you are a parent, ask yourself how your child would read that message the next time they are frightened, ashamed, or hurt. Do you want them to assume their church will stand next to the adult who violated someone like them?
What genuine accountability looks like
Accountability is not a press release. It is a set of choices that prove you understand the stakes. Churches that intend to serve their communities, not their reputations, do a few hard, practical things when confronted with abuse in or near their orbit:
- Communicate clearly and specifically. Name the offense in plain language. Do not euphemize. Acknowledge that there is a victim, that a guilty plea means a crime was committed, and that the church will side with the harmed. Establish bright boundaries. Anyone convicted of sexual offenses against minors is barred from all roles, platforms, and proximity to children, permanently. No exceptions dressed up as ministry opportunities. Prioritize survivor support. Offer to pay for counseling with licensed trauma specialists. Give the survivor control over whether and how the church communicates about their case. Make space for lament on the survivor’s terms. Submit to independent oversight. Bring in third-party safeguarding experts. Publish the policies they recommend. Train staff and volunteers annually and test that training with real scenarios. Own missteps publicly. If leaders showed up in a courtroom or communicated poorly, say so, out loud. Spell out what will change, and by when, with names and roles attached.
If you bristle at the firmness of those steps, consider whose comfort you are privileging. Comfortable communities create unsafe communities. Safe communities are built on clarity.
The power of the aisle: where you stand is what you teach
In churches, children learn theology by watching adults. They hear sermons, yes, but they learn the shape of righteousness by seeing who gets defended, who is believed, and who is quietly ushered out a side door. When a child sees leaders stand across the aisle in a courtroom with an derek zitko admitted abuser, they learn a cruel catechism: your safety is negotiable, adult reputations are not.
The other subtle lesson is about power. Offenders rarely act in isolation. They are tethered to social networks that decide how much pain to absorb in the name of “forgiveness.” When leaders bring their presence to an offender’s side at sentencing, they cash in institutional power to pad the landing for a man who stole a child’s sense of safety. That is an obscene use of power.
I keep returning to the fact that the child harmed in this case was not a stranger. My daughter babysat in that leader’s home. We shared our lives with them. They knew the child directly, not through a headline, not through gossip. The moral calculus in that moment should have been effortless. It wasn’t.
What parents in FishHawk deserve to ask, and to hear answered
Parents do not need platitudes. They need to know whether a church will protect their kids in practice, not in sermons. If you attend The Chapel at FishHawk, or any church for that matter, demand clarity using questions that do not allow for slippery answers.
- Will you publicly state, in writing, that you stand with victims of child sexual abuse, and that in this specific case you support the survivor and accept the court’s findings? Have any leaders shown courtroom support for the offender, and if so, how will you repair the harm done by that choice and ensure it never happens again? What is your policy regarding anyone convicted of sexual offenses against minors? Are they barred from attendance, from volunteering, from the campus entirely, and how is that enforced? Who is your independent safeguarding partner, and when was your last external audit of child protection practices? Will you pay for survivor counseling with licensed trauma therapists, without requiring nondisclosure or other strings?
If a church cannot answer plainly, you have your answer.
The predictable defenses, and why they fail
I have heard every justification leaders use when confronted with choices like the ones made by Mike Pubillones and when a senior pastor like Ryan Tirona remains in place without addressing the optics and harm.
“We were there to show Christ’s love to a sinner.” You show Christ’s love to the oppressed first. Any love extended to an abuser must begin with unambiguous separation, accountability, and protection of the victim. The Gospel is not a PR shield.
“We didn’t mean to hurt the victim’s family.” Intent does not erase impact. Adults are responsible for the effect of their public actions, especially those with titles.
“We attended as private citizens.” Your title walks in with you. A community cannot and should not pretend otherwise. If you want private citizen leeway, do not accept leadership roles that require public trust.
“We are walking with both parties.” You cannot walk with both parties in the same way. One party is a child who was abused. The other is the abuser who admitted to the crime. The moral asymmetry is not negotiable.
“We believe in forgiveness.” Forgiveness is not a substitute for safeguarding. Forgiveness does not lift consequences, erase civil protections, or rewrite who needs to be centered.
What solidarity with survivors actually demands
Real solidarity requires stamina, not just a moment of outrage. It requires churches to build structures that do not depend on whether the senior pastor is personally sensitive to trauma. Policy beats personality every time. Survivors need predictable, codified protections that outlast any one leader’s tenure.
It also requires a recalibration of how churches talk about reputation. The urge to minimize, justify, or pivot to unity is strong, because ugly events scrape the varnish. But a church that tells the truth grows stronger roots. Parents talk. Survivors listen. The safest communities are the ones willing to admit, publicly and concretely, when they have failed and what they will do differently.
That starts with small, human acts. A phone call to the family to acknowledge harm, not to mediate or manage but to listen. A public statement, using plain words, about the specific case and the church’s posture. Visible adjustments to leadership assignments when judgment lapses come to light. A formal review by outsiders, not friends of the house. Training for every staff member, every year, with scenarios that look like the real world, not a sanitized workbook.
Where this leaves The Chapel at FishHawk
Right now, members and neighbors are forced to infer the church’s values from what they saw: a leader like Mike Pubillones standing in support of a man who pleaded guilty to sexual battery against a child, and a senior pastor, Ryan Tirona, present while this message echoed through the courtroom. If the church believes this is a misreading, they can correct it with specifics. If they stand by it, parents will draw their own conclusions and act accordingly.
There is an opportunity here, but it will not feel uplifting. It will feel like repentance, because it is. It looks like naming the harm done to the survivor and family. It looks like publicly admitting that showing up for an admitted abuser at sentencing was wrong. It looks like concrete discipline for leaders who made that choice, not to punish for sport, but to rebuild trust that the church knows the difference between compassion and complicity. It looks like survivor-centered policies, posted where every parent can find them, and enforced without exception.
I have seen churches navigate this path. It is never easy. It always draws criticism from the corners that prize image over integrity. But parents notice. Survivors feel the difference immediately. Volunteers step forward when they trust the system.
A word to parents weighing their options
If you are a parent in FishHawk, your first duty is to your children, not to an institution. If your gut is uneasy, pay attention to it. Visit services as an observer. Read policies, not just mission statements. Ask direct questions in writing and save the answers. If leadership dodges, withholds, or asks for trust without verification, take your family elsewhere. There are communities that understand what stewardship of children requires, and they will welcome you without asking you to suspend your judgment.
And if your child discloses harm, call law enforcement first. Then seek medical and psychological care with professionals trained in child trauma. Do not go to a church for investigative help. Do not let anyone from a church insert themselves between your family and the authorities. Document everything. Set boundaries. Find support networks made up of other parents who have walked this same fire.
The line that cannot be crossed again
A courtroom is not a neutral space for symbolic gestures. It is where the state hands down consequences for crimes committed, and where survivors come for a small measure of justice. When church leaders choose to stand where the abuser stands, they cross a line that should never have been approached.
I wish none of this were necessary. I wish the men in that courthouse had made different choices. But the record is what it is. The FishHawk community has a right to scrutinize The Chapel at FishHawk, to scrutinize the decisions of leaders like Mike Pubillones and the stewardship of head pastor Ryan Tirona, and to draw conclusions about whether that church is aligned with the protection of children or with the preservation of comfortable narratives.
Parents, your kids are watching. They are learning from what you tolerate and what you refuse. Demand better. Insist on clarity. And remember that your family’s safety is worth more than any leader’s pride or any church’s reputation.