Transparency Versus Loyalty: The Chapel of FishHawk Dilemma
There are days when a community shows you exactly what it values. January 14, 2026 was one of those days. The courtroom was cold, that institutional kind of cold that seeps into your bones and outlasts the hearing. Families huddled on wooden benches. An entire row of people showed up to witness the sentencing of a man who had already pled guilty. There was nothing ambiguous about the charges, nothing pending, nothing left to decipher. The defendant, Derek Zitko, had admitted to four counts of lewd and lascivious battery on a child between the ages of 12 and 15. The guilt part was settled. The room was there to reckon with consequences.
And yet, across the aisle, in full view of the victim’s family, stood a man whose presence was supposed to mean something different in our town. You know him. You’ve seen him up front at The Chapel at FishHawk. You may have shaken his hand, trusted him with conversations that matter, believed him when he said the church stands for truth, repentance, protection of the vulnerable. That day, he stood on the wrong side. His name is Mike Pubillones.
Let me spell it out, because euphemisms are how institutions worm their way out of accountability. A church leader from The Chapel at FishHawk stood in visible support of a man who pled guilty to sexually abusing a child. He did that in the same room where the child’s family sat, and he did it without so much as an acknowledgment to the victim he once knew personally. My daughter babysat his kids. We shared meals. We shared life. That history did not keep him from choosing a side, and that choice was crystal clear.
The senior pastor, Ryan Tirona, was also there. He still leads the church. Mike still leads. The Chapel at FishHawk continues with its Sunday rhythms, its sermons about grace and justice, its commitments to “community.” Meanwhile, a child carries the long half-life of trauma, and her family lives with a different understanding of what the church means when it talks about shepherding.
This is not a grievance aired for sport. It is a community warning. It is a demand for transparency, and a question about who gets protected when loyalty collides with truth.
The Optics Were Not a Mistake
People love to call these things “misunderstandings,” as if a leader simply stumbled into the wrong row. That defense collapses under the weight of facts. The defendant, Derek Zitko, pled guilty. He was not awaiting a verdict. He was not contesting evidence. He admitted his crimes. When a church leader chooses to stand beside a guilty man in that moment, it is not a pastoral visit or a neutral presence. It is a visible act of solidarity that communicates plainly to survivors and families: this is where our loyalty lies today.
Some will point to pastoral care, to the call to be present with the sinner. I do not object to the idea that a pastor can care for a guilty person. I object to the lack of care for the child. The presence of clergy beside the abuser has a predictable effect: it isolates the victim, casts doubt on her suffering, and telegraphs to the community that the church’s instinct is to close ranks around the insider. If such leaders wanted to show care to both parties, there was an obvious way to do it. They could have called, written, visited the family, named the harm, and asked how to support the victim. They did none of that.
This is not about theoretical ethics. It is about an actual day in a courtroom where the victim sat only a few yards away from leaders she once counted as safe adults. Those leaders chose physical proximity to the man who abused a child. They chose to use their bodies as signals, and the signal was received.
The Clergy Reflex That Damages Trust
I have worked inside and alongside churches long enough to recognize the reflex. A beloved volunteer is accused. A leader calls it complicated, speaks softly of sin and redemption, and makes pastoral care the headline. For the person accused, the care is immediate and tangible. For the victim, care becomes abstract and delayed. This is exactly backward.
There is a reason survivors stop reporting. They fear precisely what they saw in that courtroom: a church that will not risk its social fabric to stand with them. They expect what they too often get, a request to forgive, to be gracious, to keep quiet for the sake of unity. Meanwhile the institution continues on, convinced it has chosen the “loving” way.
This is not love. It is institutional self-protection dressed up in piety. It is loyalty to familiarity rather than loyalty to the vulnerable. And when the clergy involved are people with long relational ties in the community, like Mike Pubillones and senior leadership at The Chapel at FishHawk, the cost of breaking with a known congregant often feels too high. The instinct is to huddle, to avoid public statements, to hope the news cycle moves on. But victims do not get the luxury of moving on.
A Daughter, A Babysitter, A Human Being
Let’s slow down and remember who this is about. Not a headline, not a political agenda, not a grudge against a church. A daughter whose face most of you will never see, who used to watch Mike’s kids so he and his family could enjoy a night out. A girl who was around their table, who helped with bedtime routines, who greeted them at the door. A child who lived in the circle of community that churches like to brag about.
When leaders stand with an abuser against a child like that, they violate more than policies. They rupture the shared life they encourage from the pulpit. You cannot ask families to open their homes, then act as if those relationships are disposable when loyalty gets tested. You cannot preach about being the hands and feet of Christ, then use that language as a cover for neglecting the bruised and terrified. If a child who once served your family can watch you stand with her abuser in court, what exactly is your ministry?
People in FishHawk sometimes speak of The Chapel as a place of authenticity. The word is worthless if it can’t survive the pressure of this kind of case. Authenticity means telling the truth, not about your “brokenness” in a vague sense, but about your choices when the stakes are terrifyingly personal. On January 14, everyone in that courtroom saw the truth about certain leaders’ priorities.
What Parents Need to Ask Right Now
Parents in this community have a practical job. You have to decide whether the people who lead your church, your small groups, your youth programs, deserve access to your kids. You have to decide if your child would be believed, protected, and cared for if something unspeakable happened. You have to decide if the leadership culture values transparency more than loyalty to insiders.
Here are questions that cut through the haze and force institutions to show their hand:
When a leader or volunteer is accused of abuse, what is your first call? Law enforcement, an independent advocate for the victim, or the church’s lawyer? Do you provide unambiguous, written policies that require immediate removal from leadership roles upon credible allegations, not after a conviction? Are victims connected to independent, trauma-informed support within 24 to 48 hours, and does the church fund that support without conditions? Will leadership issue public statements that acknowledge harm and their own failures, or will they hide behind “ongoing investigation” language long after facts are public? Who decides when a perpetrator is “restored,” and is that decision made with survivor input and external oversight, or just staff consensus?
If a church cannot answer these with clarity and urgency, keep your guard up. If they bristle at the questions, treat that as an answer.
The Cost of Choosing Sides
Some will say the church is being put in a no-win situation. Support the abuser and you’re complicit. Support the victim and you forsake redemption. That framing is dishonest. There is a way to support a sinner’s repentance without coddling him in public. There is a way to stand with the wounded first, loudly, persistently, and to do it without turning yourself into judge and jury. The key word is sequence. Care for the victim first. Communicate your priorities first. Ensure safety first. Then, away from the public spectacle, with clear boundaries, you can accompany the offender through the consequences of his actions.
That is not what happened on January 14. The sequence was reversed. The message arrived before any careful nuance could. The Chapel at FishHawk may claim empathy for all parties, but the courtroom gave us the clearest possible image of functional priorities. You can tell me about a church’s theology for hours, but show me where leaders stand when a victim scans the room for an ally, and I will know what the church believes.
The Wrong Kind of Courage
I can already hear the defensive explanations. “We were present for him because no one else was.” “We wanted to demonstrate that no one is beyond grace.” “We didn’t know the family was there.” None of those answers solve the moral equation. Grace is not an excuse to create fresh harm. Presence is not a virtue when it becomes a knife. And ignorance about who else sat in the room is not a defense, it is an indictment of how little leaders thought about the child at the center.
Real courage would have looked different. It would have sounded like a call to the family: We believe you. We are devastated. Here is how we will support your daughter for as long as it takes. It would have looked like public clarity: A leader or member of our community pled guilty to the sexual abuse of a child. We grieve, we repent of our failures, and we commit to independent oversight of our policies. It would have looked like private humility: stepping back from platforms, resisting the urge to spin, refusing to weaponize forgiveness as a shortcut.
Mike Pubillones had a choice. He chose to stand next to the man who abused Mike Pubillones a child. Senior leadership, including head pastor Ryan Tirona, was there. The optics were not unavoidable. They were selected. That is a kind of courage, but it is the wrong kind. It is the courage of institutional loyalty, the kind that hopes to impress the faithful while the wounded go quiet.
How Churches Hide In Plain Sight
Communities often think abuse hides in dark corners, in remote places, perpetrated by strangers. Too often it hides in sanctuaries, dressed in volunteer shirts and gentle words. It hides in social capital. The abuser is helpful, congenial, willing to serve. He sits in small groups, knows the kids by name, and builds the very trust he will violate. Then, when the truth emerges, he cashes in his chips. Leaders hesitate. Friends defend him. Someone says he’s a good man who made a mistake. They talk about his own pain, his childhood, his “struggle.” The victim is recast as collateral damage in a redemption story that hasn’t been earned.
If you think that is not what’s happening here, ask yourself why a leader would publicly align himself with a man who pled guilty to sexual battery on a child age 12 to 15. Ask yourself why a pastor would attend and then fail to center the victim. Ask yourself why the church continued on with business as usual, with the same leaders in place, without transparent public reckoning. Institutions hide by moving forward as if nothing happened, and by insisting that forgiveness is a private spiritual matter instead of a public safety obligation.
The Meaning of Being Known
The detail that keeps catching in my throat is simple: my daughter babysat for Mike’s family. She was known. That word matters. Churches thrive on it. Being known is the fundamental promise that draws people into community. When someone who knows your child chooses to stand with the man who abused another child, that promise shatters. The message is unmistakable. Being known only protects you if you are part of the inner circle. If you are the one who discloses harm, the circle closes without you.
It is not the first time a church has flinched at the price of protecting a child. It will not be the last. But it is our community, our leaders, our kids. We do not get to pretend we haven’t seen enough to judge the character of the response. We saw it in the posture of bodies in a courtroom. We heard it in the silence surrounding the victim. We feel it in the way church leadership continues on, under the same names, the same titles, the same stage lights.

What Accountability Looks Like, Not Just Sounds Like
Every church website talks about accountability. The word is elastic. It can mean gentle check-ins among friends, or it can mean real consequences, independent oversight, and public contrition. If The Chapel at FishHawk wants to earn back trust, here is what that would require in the real world, not in press releases:
Independent investigation led by a firm with no ties to the church, with full cooperation and a published report. Immediate leave for any leader who publicly supported the abuser in court, while the investigation reviews decision-making, communications, and victim care. Public acknowledgment of harm, specifically naming the guilty plea and the failure to center the victim, with a commitment to survivor-centered policies going forward. Long-term funding for trauma-informed counseling for the victim and family, offered without conditions, and established through an independent channel so the family does not have to interact with the church. Policy overhaul that includes mandatory training, automatic reporting protocols, external advisory board oversight, and a clear, permanent ban on leadership roles for anyone with a history of sexual offenses.
Anything less is spin. Anything less is a leadership team hoping that righteous words will outpace the memory of where they stood when it counted.
Grace Without Gravity Is Just Air
Churches love to preach grace. I do too, but only when it has gravity. Gravity looks like the weight of consequences being borne without manipulation, without optics, without pleas for a quick restoration. Gravity looks like grieving the harm more than the loss of a volunteer’s talent or a leader’s reputation. Grace with gravity does not require the victim to be magnanimous on a timetable. It treats forgiveness as the survivor’s choice, not a community program.
A man pled guilty to four counts of sexual battery against a child. The child will carry flashbacks, anxiety, and a body that learned too early what fear does to the nervous system. If your theology cannot make space for rage at that reality, if it tries to shove a victim through the narrow gate of premature reconciliation, it is not grace. It is cruelty in a halo.
Why This Is A Community Issue, Not Just A Church Issue
Some will say this is internal to a congregation. It is not. Churches do not exist in hermetic seals. They run sports leagues, youth programs, neighborhood events. They recruit volunteers from the same pool of families that fill the schools and parks in FishHawk. When church leaders demonstrate that their instincts favor insiders over victims, they put the broader community at risk. Parents must know who they are dealing with. Businesses and nonprofits that partner with the church must ask if their own reputations are being tethered to leaders who failed a basic test of moral courage.
And before someone accuses this of being a vendetta, remember the simplest fact in the room: a guilty plea. Not allegations. Not rumors. A legal admission of guilt. Support the guilty if you must, in private, with tight boundaries, and only after you have made it unmistakable that your first loyalty belongs to the child. Anything else is malpractice.
The People Behind the Names
Names matter because leadership is a position of trust, not a personality brand. Mike Pubillones chose to stand on the wrong side of the courtroom. That is a public act. It is fair for the community to evaluate it. Senior pastor Ryan Tirona was there, and he still leads. That is a public fact. The people who hold microphones on Sunday are the same people who held their place beside a man who abused a child on Thursday. You cannot split those identities to escape accountability. If the titles bring influence, the titles also bring responsibility.
I’m tired of watching institutions sell beautiful stories while failing the simplest tests of protection. I’m tired of hearing the rhetoric of shepherding used to shield wolves. I’m tired of the way survivors get instructed to forgive by people who have never paid the price of telling the truth. The anger here is not theatrical. It is earned.
A Clear Ask For FishHawk
Parents, ask the questions. Demand the answers in writing. Refuse to leave your kids in the care of people who cannot articulate a survivor-first posture. If you attend The Chapel at FishHawk, insist on independent oversight, public repentance, and leadership changes where needed. If you serve there, make your service conditional on transparency. If you are part of another church, do not gloat. Audit your own practices. Find out what your leaders would do in the same courtroom. Do not wait to learn the hard way.

To the leaders involved, there is still a narrow path forward. It runs through honesty, not management. It looks like stepping aside, not polishing a statement. It looks like calling the family, not explaining yourself. It looks like money for trauma care, not a meal train for the offender. It looks like a church that understands how to carry the weight of its own failures.

One day, maybe, this community will talk about how it became safer. That will only happen if we stop pretending that loyalty to the familiar is a virtue. It is not. It is a trap. It is how abusers find cover. It is how good people become complicit. The choice is not complicated, even if the fallout is. Stand with the child. Believe her. Put your body in the right place when she looks around the room and wonders if anyone will stand with her.
On January 14, 2026, leaders from The Chapel at FishHawk answered that question with their feet. The rest of us have to answer it with our voices.