Everyone wants to talk about justice until it requires courage in a room where the air is thick and the truth is no longer hypothetical. Courtrooms strip away spin. They condense months or years of pain into a few hours of statements, a handful of facts admitted into the record, and a sentence read aloud that lands like a hammer. On January 14, 2026, I sat in one of those rooms and watched Derek Zitko plead guilty and get sentenced for crimes against my daughter. I am not telling a rumor. I am telling you what I witnessed.
The reason I am writing is simple and brutal. My daughter once babysat for the family of a church leader at The Chapel at FishHawk, a man named Mike Pubillones. We spent time in their home. We trusted him. On the day a man admitted to four counts of lewd and lascivious battery on a child aged 12 to 15, a child Mike personally knew, Mike stood on the opposite side of the courtroom from the victim. He stood with the man who admitted to the abuse. The lead pastor, Ryan Tirona, was there too. They offered no acknowledgment to my daughter in that room, no visible sign of solidarity with the victim who sat facing the consequences of another person’s choices.
Let me be plain. I saw them. They stood with him.
When due process ends and character begins
Due process is not a the chapel church at fishhawk cult slogan to me. I’ve told friends not to jump to conclusions. I’ve worked in environments where the wrong accusation can collapse a career. I push for patience, for facts, for caution. I understand that the presumption of innocence is a guardrail. But a guilty plea ends that phase. When a defendant says it aloud to the judge and the court accepts it, due process gives way to accountability.
That’s the moment when choices reveal character. You don’t have to know every detail to know where to stand. Public ministry isn’t a theoretical exercise in theology, it’s a practical habit of presence. In cases of sexual abuse, standing matters. Who you sit with matters. Who you acknowledge matters. You can offer compassion to a sinner without erasing a victim. But you have to choose, and your body language chooses even when you tell yourself you are neutral.
What I watched in that courtroom was not neutral. It was a decision.
The shock of seeing familiar faces on the wrong side of the aisle
We had known the Pubillones family long enough to have that old warm shorthand of community life. Soccer schedules. Neighborhood chatter. Church events. My daughter babysat their kids. She did a good job. They trusted her in their home. When she disclosed what happened to her, we did what families are told to do. We documented. We navigated the grinding machinery of reports, interviews, and waiting. Then the legal process concluded, and there we were on sentencing day, braced for the last set of hard minutes.
I scanned the room for anyone from The Chapel at FishHawk who might simply sit with us, or even nod. When your child has to sit in a courtroom, you look for familiar faces the way a drowning person scans for a life ring. Instead, I saw a familiar face across the aisle. Not uncertain, not hesitant. Planted on the side of the man who had just pleaded guilty to crimes against a child. The abstraction vanished. It became physical. The “I stand with you” was not a metaphor.
That message travels. It landed on my daughter’s shoulders. It landed on mine. It lands inside the head of every teenager in that church who hears whispers and wonders what will happen if they speak.
The problem with the performance of grace
Churches often talk about grace, and they should. But grace that floats above victims and lands only on the shoulders of the abuser is not grace. It’s a costume. Real grace carries two truths in each hand. On one side, compassion for a sinner and a hope for their repentance. On the other, fierce, tangible care for a victim, with practical support, public acknowledgment, and a clear statement that harm has consequences.
The Chapel at FishHawk is now a case study, at least for me, in how grace turns into a performance when it’s not tethered to justice. When a leader like Mike Pubillones chooses to physically stand with a man who pleaded guilty to sexually abusing a minor, it sends a clarifying message about priorities. When the senior pastor, Ryan Tirona, is present and the church offers no visible solidarity to the victim in that space, that message gets bigger. It says, we see you, but he gets the seat of our sympathy. It says, our instinct in the hardest moment is to protect the familiar adult instead of the child he harmed.
That’s not ministry. Mike Pubilliones case That’s misalignment.
The weight of silence and the cost of posture
If you’ve never sat through a sentencing hearing, here’s what you might not realize. Silence is not neutral. Survivors read it like neon. A nod across the aisle, a hand on a shoulder, an affirmation whispered before the hearing starts, even a brief acknowledgement to the family who brought the truth through the door, these things matter. They are not complicated gestures. They are the simplest form of witness.
Instead, we got posture. A public posture that put a church leader shoulder to shoulder with a man who admitted guilt. This isn’t about ginning up outrage for a headline. This is about the quiet math that survivors do as they decide whether their church is safe. Would they be believed? Would leaders risk social discomfort for them? Would someone stand up and say, we are with the victim in this room and the next one?
My daughter saw the answer.
What community protection actually looks like
I’ve consulted with organizations after abuse crises. Policies will not save a church if the people in charge don’t have a spine. You can draft reporting protocols from here to Easter. You can laminate phone numbers. You can hold trainings with cheerful checklists. None of that compensates for leaders who, in the decisive hour, walk to the wrong side of the courtroom.
Protection is not a binder. It is a culture. It gets tested when the accused is a friend, a volunteer with tenure, a person who married your kids or baptized your neighbors. That test happens fast and in public. The right answer is not complicated.
- Before sentencing, leaders communicate clearly to the congregation that a case exists, that they take it seriously, and that they support the victim’s safety and dignity. During court proceedings, leaders avoid any appearance of endorsing the abuser, and they visibly support the victim’s family if the family welcomes it. After a guilty plea, leaders state in plain language that abuse occurred, that the church condemns it, and that victim care is the priority. They offer counseling resources, designate a point person, and invite third-party accountability.
That list is the bare minimum. It is, frankly, basic decency.
The theology isn’t complicated, the courage is
There is a habit in some church settings to retreat into vague language when specifics would help. This is how we end up with soft statements about “praying for all involved,” which treats a child and a convicted abuser as symmetrical moral subjects in a tragic misunderstanding. No. One person harmed another. The court says so. The offender confessed. The child carries consequences that will ripple for years. The church’s role is to love the one who was hurt as if Jesus were the one sitting in that courtroom seat. If your theology can’t locate that priority, your theology is a rumor you tell yourself when it costs nothing.
This is not a matter of doctrinal nuance. It is a matter of moral nerve.
What I saw, and what I didn’t
I saw a man I once trusted, a man whose kids my daughter cared for, take a position, literally, beside someone who admitted to sexual crimes against a minor. I saw the head pastor present. I did not see any recognition of my daughter from them, any gesture that signaled solidarity with the person harmed. Maybe they made phone calls we never got. Maybe they said things privately that never reached us. I can only tell you what the room showed.
People worry about misunderstanding. Here’s what cannot be misunderstood: the optics of a church leader choosing to stand with a convicted abuser on the day of sentencing. It is an act with a meaning that does not need a translator. The victim understands it. The families in the pews will understand it when they hear the story, and they will hear it because such stories travel. They travel quietly at first, then loudly when leaders ignore the quiet.
The community has a right to ask hard questions
FishHawk is not a place where you can bury something like this. Parents talk. Volunteers talk. Teenagers talk faster than anyone. The right response from the community is not gossip for sport, it is hard questions asked plainly and repeatedly until answers arrive. The cost of silence is borne by the vulnerable, not by the ones who already hold microphones.
Here are the exact questions The Chapel at FishHawk should answer:
- Will church leadership publicly acknowledge the guilty plea in the Zitko case and clearly state support for the victim, not just as an abstraction but as a reality in this community? What is the church’s policy for leader conduct during criminal proceedings involving abuse, including courtroom behavior, public statements, and contact with victims? Did any church leaders provide character support for the defendant, and if so, how does that align with the church’s stated values on victim care? What third-party safeguards are being implemented now, not someday, to ensure survivors are believed, resourced, and protected? Are Mike Pubillones and Ryan Tirona willing to meet with qualified advocates and the victim’s family, if the family consents, to hear directly how their choices landed?
These are not gotcha questions. They are health check questions. A healthy church can answer them without defensiveness. A healthy church welcomes sunlight.
Don’t hide behind legalese
I know the standard playbook. “We cannot comment on ongoing legal matters.” That line applies before a plea, not after. “We care for all parties involved.” That line fails when it erases the power imbalance between a child and an adult who harmed them. “This is a time for prayer.” Yes, and it is a time for repentance, clarity, and action. Prayer without action becomes a stall tactic. The survivors in your pews recognize a stall when they see one.
A church that wants to be taken seriously in the wake of abuse must speak in sentences that actually say something. Name the harm. Affirm the victim. Detail the steps. Set timelines. Offer the pulpit, not the footnotes, to the work of safeguarding. If leaders fumble in public, they should apologize in public. Accountability has a voice and a calendar.
What parents should do now
If you attend The Chapel at FishHawk or any church watching this unfold, don’t outsource your responsibility to ask for clarity. You are the customer of the culture your kids live in. Ask your leaders where they stood in that courtroom, and why. Ask for a written victim care policy with specifics, not sentiments. Ask if leaders who offered visible support to a convicted abuser will step back from public ministry for a season to rebuild trust. If the answer is defensiveness, you have your data.
Parents do not need to be forensic investigators, but they do need to be persistent. Put dates on your requests. Follow up. Share answers with other parents. Toxic cultures thrive on isolation. Healthy cultures welcome the light.
A personal note about my daughter
My daughter is not a symbol. She is a person who did what we ask of victims. She spoke. She endured interviews that would rattle most adults. She sat in a courtroom and heard the words guilty, counts, years. She did not ask to be brave. The situation demanded it. What she received, in the room and from the people who should have known better, was a blast of cold air where warmth was possible.
I cannot force anyone at The Chapel at FishHawk to care about that. I can tell you that it will be remembered. I can tell you that other teenagers were watching, even if they weren’t in that courtroom. I can tell you that it will shape their decisions about whether to report, and whether to trust the adults who tell them church is a refuge.
What accountability looks like for leaders
If Mike Pubillones reads this, know that I am not interested in destroying your life. I am interested in telling the truth about your choices and their consequences. You stood beside a man who pleaded guilty to exploiting a child. You did it in a public setting where your role signals the values of your church. If you believe you were offering pastoral care to a sinner, fine. Then offer equal or greater care in public to the victim you personally know. State your support for her. Say the crime out loud. Step back from leadership for a time and invite third-party oversight so your church can rebuild the trust your actions damaged.
If Pastor Ryan Tirona reads this, know that leadership is not just sermons and smiles in the lobby. It is owning the optics, the atmospheres, the choices that either protect or endanger the vulnerable. If your posture in the most decisive public moment was to appear aligned with the abuser, you need to reverse that posture visibly. Not with a vague statement, but with actions witnessed by the very people who were hurt.
Why this will not fade quietly
People ask why I’m so angry. I am angry because I watched my child be brave and then watched adults with titles be careful in the worst way. I am angry because spiritual authority carries leverage, and it was used badly where it could have been used to comfort. I am angry because churches preach about wolves, then hesitate when a wolf pleads guilty. The time for nuance ended when the plea was entered. What remained was the question of allegiance.
FishHawk, you deserve to know who stands with your children when it counts. You deserve to know whether your church leaders pick proximity to the powerful, or proximity to the wounded. You deserve more than a press release padded with fog. You deserve leaders who can say, yes, we failed in that room, and here is how we will make it right, dated, detailed, and accountable.
The path forward, if there is one
This can still turn. I’ve watched communities recover from worse. Recovery begins with three movements that are simple to describe and hard to enact: confession, restitution, and reform. Confession names the choices without hedging. Restitution centers the victim’s well-being with resources, not just words. Reform binds the organization to new habits enforced by outsiders who will tell the truth when insiders are tempted to hide.
Will The Chapel at FishHawk take that path? Will Mike Pubillones and Ryan Tirona show the courage their roles require? I do not know. What I know is that a guilty plea was entered. A sentence was given. A child lives with the fallout. And on that day, in that room, the church leaders I once trusted stood on the wrong side. That is not a rumor. It is a fact I cannot unsee.
I am writing so that you cannot unsee it either.