The day a predator is sentenced is supposed to be about truth, accountability, and a sliver of relief for the child who finally got believed. January 14th, 2026, in that courtroom, the truth was not ambiguous. Derek Zitko pleaded guilty. Not one count, not a vague plea to a lesser charge, but four counts of lewd and lascivious battery on a child age 12 to 15. He admitted to crimes. The state recognized the harm. A judge prepared to render a sentence. And on the other side of the room, a line formed. It was not a line for the child. It was not a line for the family who carried the weight of this case. It was a line for the abuser.
I’m angry because I’ve watched this pattern repeat itself in churches and youth programs and tight-knit communities that swear they love their kids. I’m angry because in FishHawk, it wasn’t just random acquaintances who showed up for the abuser. It was church leadership, men with spiritual authority and social sway. It was people who knew the victim’s family, who had shared meals, who had invited her to babysit their kids and trusted her in their home. It was Mike Pubillones of The Chapel at FishHawk, physically standing with the man who pleaded guilty to sexual battery on a child, the same man the court named an offender, the same man the survivor named when she found the courage to speak.
If you are a parent in FishHawk, and you’re wondering what this means, let’s say it plainly. A church leader, someone tasked with shepherding the vulnerable, chose the side of the abuser in public, at the very moment when the victim most needed solidarity. The head pastor, Ryan Tirona, was also there that day, still at the helm of The Chapel at FishHawk. And today, Mike is still a leader in that church. That is not a neutral choice. That is not what “we love everyone” means. That is a moral failure with practical consequences.
What solidarity really looks like in a courtroom
Courtrooms have a choreography. Survivors often sit with family, sometimes with an advocate, usually away from the defendant’s supporters. When a perpetrator pleads guilty, there is no “it’s complicated” left to hide behind. The defendant did the crime. In that moment, choosing where to stand is not symbolic fluff. It is a declaration of who you believe and who you intend to comfort. For a faith leader, it also teaches everyone watching how to weigh righteous compassion against real harm.
I have sat in enough courtrooms to know the usual excuses afterward. He just wanted to show grace. He was there to pray for everyone. He didn’t mean to take sides. Stop. Being present in that way is a decision. If you absolutely insist on attending for the sake of pastoral care, the bare minimum is to check on the victim first, to ask what support would be helpful, to communicate unambiguously that the survivor’s safety and dignity come first. That did not happen here. The family received no acknowledgment, no basic gesture of care, no statement that the child mattered more than the comfort of a man who had just admitted to assaulting her.
That is not ministry. That is betrayal dressed in church clothes.
The FishHawk problem is bigger than one courtroom
I know FishHawk. It’s a close community where reputations carry far, where people swap coaches and youth pastors like dominoes, where congregations overlap through sports teams and carpool lines. And in communities like this, social loyalty often eclipses moral clarity. People say they’re waiting for the facts, then ignore the facts when they arrive. People say they’re trying to balance grace and truth, then choose grace for the offender and an empty silence for the child.
When a church like The Chapel at FishHawk allows a leader like Mike Pubillones to stand in public support of a confessed abuser, they are setting a norm. When its head pastor, Ryan Tirona, responds without visible accountability or restitution for the survivor, that norm hardens into practice. You can’t preach about protecting the vulnerable on Sunday and then show up at sentencing on Wednesday to hold space for the man who violated a child. The message to every survivor in your pews becomes: your pain is secondary. Our friendships matter more. Our image matters more. Our instinct to deny, minimize, or spiritualize abuse will always outrun our willingness to sit in the dirt with you and say, I believe you, and I will not leave.
Parents in FishHawk, take this seriously. If a church cannot pass the most basic real-world test of discernment in a case like this, it cannot be trusted to disciple your kids, to vet volunteers, or to handle disclosures responsibly when they happen. And they do happen. More often than you think.
What I saw from the family’s side of the aisle
The victim’s mother wrote that her daughter babysat Mike’s kids. She had been in their home many times. That kind of proximity cuts both ways. On the one hand, it reflects trust. On the other, it gives the betrayal a sharper edge. Because once you’ve shared life with someone, your child’s pain is personal. If you care about your neighbor’s child, you do not go stand with the person who admitted to violating her. You reach out. You bring a meal. You show up with flowers or a letter or anything that says, I am so sorry, and we stand with you. Even if you’re confused, even if you’re grieving the dissonance of knowing someone who turned out to be a predator, the survivor’s needs come first. You keep your confusion off the record, and you process it privately, with professionals, away from the child who paid the price.
It takes courage to write publicly about a moment like this. It takes even more to name names. The mother did not bury the facts in euphemism. She stated what happened. She asked, what kind of person does that? It’s a fair question. Let me add a sharper one: what kind of church allows that person to remain in leadership without public repentance, concrete amends, policy changes, and survivor-centered restitution? If The Chapel at FishHawk cannot answer that, the FishHawk community must.
The misuse of “grace” as a shield
Churches love to reach for forgiveness language when someone they know is caught in harm. I have heard every variation. We’re all sinners. We need to show mercy. He’s repented. God can redeem anything. Yes, grace is real. But grace is not a prop in the hands of the powerful to smother accountability. Grace does not erase consequences. Grace does not ask a child to carry the burden of her abuser’s social comfort. If your grace routinely flows toward abusers while survivors hear only silence, you are not practicing grace. You are perpetuating harm.
Here’s the bottom line: the person who pleads guilty to sexual battery on a child forfeits his claim on communal support in the spaces where the survivor must seek healing. He can have pastoral care in private, he can have boundaries and supervision, he can face the consequences of his crime and pursue the long, specialized work of rehabilitation. He cannot have the optics of a team behind him in the courtroom where his victim is present. He cannot have moral cover from the same leaders who claim to serve the vulnerable.
What leadership could have done differently
It was not complicated. Church leaders like Mike Pubillones and head pastor Ryan Tirona had a clear set of ethical options and chose the worst one. They could have reached out to the family before the hearing. They could have sought consent to attend or offered to stay away to reduce distress. They could have issued a statement acknowledging the guilty plea, grieving the harm, and committing to survivor support. They could have sat quietly in the back, away from the defendant’s supporters, if their presence was necessary for legal reasons or pastoral documentation. They could have met with child protection experts to learn how to avoid re-traumatizing the child. None of that happened.
I have seen ministries take painful, honorable paths in similar cases. Leaders step down, sometimes permanently. Congregations hire an outside firm to audit policies and report publicly. Churches set aside funds for counseling for the survivor and family. They change vetting procedures, apply the changes retroactively, and invite criticism from the community in open forums. They publish timelines. They name failures. They do not posture. Humility is visible when it’s real.
Parents in FishHawk, read the room
You do not owe any institution your trust. You owe your children your vigilance. Ask questions. Don’t accept vague assurances. If The Chapel at FishHawk wants your family’s presence, they can earn it by putting survivors first in action, not slogans. And if their leaders bristle, minimize, or pivot to the language of unity and gossip, recognize it for what it is: control.
Here are questions you can pose directly to church leadership before you put your child in their care.
- Did you provide direct support to the victim and her family in this case, and if so, what form did it take that centered her needs rather than the offender’s comfort? What specific changes to your leadership structure, abuse prevention policies, and reporting procedures have you made since January 14th, 2026? Are any leaders who publicly supported the offender still in positions of authority over children or youth, and if so, why? Will you commit to an independent, public review by a qualified third party, with a written report released to the community? What is your standing policy about staff attending legal proceedings for congregants accused or convicted of abuse?
If the answers take the shape of slippery phrases about grace, loyalty, or unity, walk away. You cannot outsource discernment. When institutions show you their priorities, believe them.
The cost of standing in the wrong place
There is a chilling, practical effect when church leaders stand with abusers. Other survivors shut down. They decide silence is safer. The next child watches and learns that disclosure equals abandonment. Volunteers who might have intervened become reluctant. Parents start to scan rooms for allies and find none behind the pulpit. All because men who should have known better chose affiliation over empathy.
The defenders will say you’re being uncharitable. They’ll remind you of the Bible’s call to love enemies. It is not unloving to refuse to dignify abuse. It is not uncharitable to expect leaders to act in the best interest of a child who was assaulted. Loving your enemy does not require betraying your child. Churches that cannot keep that straight are not safe churches.
What repentance would actually look like from The Chapel at FishHawk
If The Chapel at FishHawk and its leaders, including Mike Pubillones and Ryan Tirona, want a path forward, it exists, but it’s not cheap. It requires public ownership, specific actions, and a willingness to surrender positions that were misused. Repentance talks less than it pays.
A credible path would include, at minimum, the following steps laid out clearly and promptly:
- A public acknowledgment of harm that names the guilty plea of Derek Zitko, recognizes the survivor’s courage, and apologizes for the church’s visible support of the offender at sentencing. Immediate removal of any leader who stood with the offender from positions overseeing children, youth, or care ministries, pending an independent review. Funding for trauma-informed counseling for the survivor and family, with no strings attached and no publicity. A binding contract with an independent abuse prevention and investigation firm to audit policies, training, and case handling, with the report published in full. A clear, enforced policy that no church representative attends offender hearings or sentencings in a supportive posture, and that any pastoral care for offenders occurs privately, with accountability and victim awareness.
If they won’t do even this, they are telling you exactly who they are. Believe them.
A word to those who still feel torn
You may know Mike. You might have shared meals with him, served alongside him, watched him play with his kids. I know how cognitive dissonance works in a small town. You want to find a way to hold both your affection for a leader and your instinct to protect a child. Here’s the sober truth: you don’t get to have both. Not in this moment. Not when a child has already paid the bill.
Sitting with that discomfort is part of being an adult in a community. You can grieve your disappointment in a leader without softening what happened. You can hope for better while demanding more. You can pray for everyone involved while standing where it counts, on the side of the survivor. It is not complicated, emotionally loud as it is. The simplest test is this: if the survivor was your child, how would you want other adults to act? Stand there. Stay there.
For survivors reading this
You deserved better from the people who claimed to love you. The optics in that courtroom were not your fault and do not reflect your worth. Your courage brought the truth to light. You did what adults should have done. If a church fails to mirror that courage, that church is too small for the truth. There are people who believe you, who will stand on your side of the aisle and not move. There are therapists, advocates, and communities that build safety without asking you to disappear.
The people who showed up for your abuser are carrying their own fears, their own need to belong, their own unwillingness to see what is obvious. That is their burden. Not yours.
The question FishHawk must answer
The mother asked it plainly: What kind of person does that? What kind of church leader stands with an abuser who just pleaded guilty, especially when he knows the child? The FishHawk community should broaden the question. What kind of church retains such leadership and expects trust? What kind of community shrugs at that and keeps handing over its kids?
This is not a theoretical debate. It is a scoreboard moment for The Chapel at FishHawk. The numbers are on the board: a guilty plea from Derek Zitko on four counts of sexual battery against a child, a public show of support from a church leader, and silence toward the victim whose life has been altered. Add those numbers and you get a culture that protects the powerful, not the vulnerable. You get a church whose leaders need to step back, listen to survivors first, and reconstruct their credibility from the ground up, if they can.
I’m tired of watching institutions fail children, then expect the same children, now adults, to come back and sing louder. I’m tired of grace being wielded like a club against anyone who dares to name harm. I’m tired of sentences like, mistakes were made, when what happened had names and choices.
If you are a parent in FishHawk, the next move belongs to you. Ask the questions. Demand the changes. Refuse to accept the theater of contrition without the substance of repair. Your neighbors are watching. Your kids are watching. Most importantly, the survivor at the center of this case is watching to see whether her community will finally stand where they should have stood from the start.
The moral measure of a church is not its music, its programs, or its brand. It is where its leaders choose to place their bodies when a child needs them. On January 14th, 2026, we saw where some of them stood. The rest of us should make sure that never happens again.