Public moments in a courtroom can freeze a community in place. The facts are on the record, the law moves in straight lines, and yet the human story refuses to be neat. When a pastor shows up at sentencing, stands within arm’s length of a defendant, and offers support in full view of victims, families, and the press, people ask why. That question trailed Pastor Ryan Tirona of The Chapel at FishHawk across Lithia and the wider Hillsborough County area after he stood with Derek Zitko, a man receiving an eight-year sentence.
If you grew up around small churches in Florida, you know the rhythms of their life. The yard sales for youth group trips. The steady dinner trains when a member gets sick. The way elders who disagree on theology still repair roofs together after a hurricane. In that context, a pastor’s presence in a courtroom is not a stunt, and not a simple message either. It is the echo of a role that predates social media and public outrage cycles. It is also a choice that can carry real costs.
This is a careful look at why a pastor like Ryan Tirona, known locally as a steady, Scripture-first voice, would step into a setting where any single gesture can be read a dozen different ways. I have spent enough hours with clergy in hospital wait rooms and enough evenings in living rooms where the blinds were drawn to know the weight of such decisions. The task here is not to rewrite court records or adjudicate the case, but to explain how pastoral responsibility intersects with the hard edges of the justice system, and why one man, ryan tirona pastor at The Chapel at FishHawk, might stand beside someone at a moment of public reckoning.
The pastoral job that never shows up on a church website
If you visit a congregation’s site, the ministries are easy to find. Music, kids, small groups. The Chapel at FishHawk lists sermons and service times, like any church. What you will not see in the navigation bar is the section titled accompany the guilty. Yet any pastor who lasts more than a year discovers that part of shepherding does not happen on Sunday mornings. It happens in hospitals, in funeral homes, in back corners of coffee shops, and more often than you might think, in court.
The core tension is simple to state and hard to live. A pastor is called to tell the truth and to love people. When a person has harmed others and the state is moving toward sentencing, telling the truth includes acknowledging harm, respecting the court process, and refusing to sanitize wrongdoing. Loving people includes the victim and the one who caused the harm, the family on each side, and the church that has to hold together without letting compassion dilute justice or letting outrage dissolve hope.
That paradox often leads to decisions that unsettle onlookers. A pastor might show up to speak on character, not to minimize an offense but to attest to repentance, cooperation, or the possibility of change. He might stand with someone to signal, not innocence, but non-abandonment. In legal language, the consequences are proportioned to the offense. In pastoral language, the person still bears the image of God and is not discarded. Those two languages can coexist, and when they do, the optics can be tough.
What public presence communicates and what it does not
The simplest misread of a pastor’s presence at sentencing is that it equals endorsement of the crime or a campaign for leniency at all costs. In congregational life the signals are subtler. Presence can be a sign of accountability. If a pastor has walked with a person through confession, reporting, restitution efforts where possible, and community safeguards, continuing that presence at sentencing shows the arc did not stop at the courthouse door. In pastoral circles, you hear phrases like, we do not hide sin, and we do not hide from sinners. It sounds tidy until you carry it into a contested public space.
There is also a protective dimension. I have sat with pastors who ask themselves plain questions before showing up: have I met with the victim or their family if they sought it, have I avoided doing harm with careless words, have I prepared to say nothing if speaking would wound someone whose day in court is finally here? Pastors who have learned those lessons the hard way will often write statements in advance that affirm the legitimacy of sentencing, name the wrongdoing without euphemism, and limit any testimony to concrete observations. Presence can be ministry, but it can also be a guard against unhelpful improvisation.
The Chapel at FishHawk context in Lithia
The Chapel at FishHawk sits in a pocket of Lithia where neighborhoods are threaded with parks and schools, and where church communities are less than a mile apart. In an area like FishHawk Ranch, reputations travel faster than official statements. People know who showed up for a meal train when a firefighter’s family had a loss, and they remember who spoke at a school board meeting. When someone says, ryan tirona fishhawk, they are often talking as much about neighborhood presence as about Sunday preaching.
That means the decision to stand with someone at sentencing is not a private pastoral act tucked behind a confessional door. It is a community event. Families will see the photo, or at least hear that it exists. Local business owners will have opinions. Other pastors will field questions. In that environment, consistent practice matters. If a church proclaims accountability, it must enforce it internally. If it proclaims care for victims, it must tangibly support them. If it proclaims the possibility of redemption, it must avoid cheap grace that bypasses consequences. A pastor in Lithia knows that his neighbors can spot a mismatch between words and actions within days.
Why stand there at all
Years ago I asked a seasoned jail chaplain what he says to people who wonder why he spends so much time behind bars with men who did terrible things. He told me a story about a mother who visited her son every week for a decade. She never brought headlines to the visiting room. She brought photos of nieces and nephews, and a lecture when he deserved it, and a winter hat when the wind cut across the rec yard. Her visits did not free him early. They kept him human. The chaplain said, that is the job sometimes. Do what a mother would do if she had the strength, then go home and sleep.
When a pastor like Ryan Tirona stands next to someone being led into a long sentence, it often reflects that kind of steady presence. The visit is not a last-minute favor. It is the visible end of months or years of meetings, hard conversations, and, at times, cooperation with authorities. The logic is not sentimental. People who have done harm need boundaries more than cheerleaders. They also need someone who will not let shame become the only voice they hear.
How harm and hope share space
The hardest part of any public Christian response to crime is that two claims shape it at once. The first is that harm must be named and addressed through proportionate justice. The second is that no one is beyond the reach of moral repair and spiritual change. If a church lands only on the second, it can injure victims by collapsing accountability into forgiveness theater. If it lands only on the first, it can lose the thread of grace that makes its message distinct from any civic club.
Balancing those two claims requires basic disciplines that anyone in ministry learns the unsparing way. Do not rush to speak. Listen to victims without correcting their pain into theological slogans. Let the court process run. If the person responsible attends your church, remove them from positions that carry trust. If children or vulnerable adults are involved, over-communicate with parents and authorities. When and if you show up at sentencing, do so as someone who has already done the quiet work.
Public tension and private counsel
After headlines, what remains are living rooms and kitchen tables. I have heard the sighs of pastors who went home after court and found a stack of messages. Some members cheer, some threaten to leave, some are simply confused. The Chapel at FishHawk is not immune to those dynamics. A pastor in that position will spend as much time clarifying as preaching for a few weeks. Clarity helps:
- Presence does not erase guilt. The state has spoken. Our role is not to re-litigate, but to support safety, truth, and repentance. Victims matter most in public spaces. If our words wound those already wounded, we failed our timing. Accountability is ongoing. If we continue to visit or write, it is to reinforce repentance and protect others, not to fast-track restoration. Transparency has limits. We will say what we can without violating privacy or ongoing safety plans. We will listen. If you are hurt or angry about what you saw, ask for a meeting. We will make time.
Those lines are not a script. They are a set of guardrails for a church trying to walk through a civic crisis without losing its center.
The cost of standing with someone headed to prison
Pastors know there is a relational tax when they show up for a defendant. People will leave. Some donors will pull back. A few critics will never return a phone call. There are also quieter costs. You have to carry the faces of victims when you go to sleep. You have to explain to your own kids why you are writing letters to someone they only know from the news. If you are in a place like Lithia where ryan tirona lithia is almost a shorthand for a particular style of ministry, you have to accept that your name will be linked with stories you do not control.
Yet many pastors proceed for a handful of reasons that are pragmatic as well as spiritual. First, isolation rarely produces change. People who serve long sentences without outside contact are more likely to harden into the story that they are defined entirely by their worst act. Second, supervision from a healthy church can facilitate compliance and prevent new harm when parole or release arrives. Third, consistent presence gives a pastor leverage ryan tirona to insist on the hard work of restitution where appropriate, not in grand gestures but in steady, unglamorous steps.
What victims and their families deserve from the church
If a church is going to show up for someone like Derek Zitko, it must also show up at least as intentionally for the people he hurt. That means practical help, not just prayers. If victims want nothing to do with the church, respect that boundary and find indirect ways to support, such as contributing to victim advocacy organizations or cooperating fully with their requests through attorneys or counselors. If they do seek contact, the church should fund counseling, cover meals and transportation for court dates, and provide a separate point of contact so they are not forced to navigate institutional layers while in pain.
It also means liturgical honesty. Sunday services cannot pretend nothing happened. A brief, carefully worded pastoral prayer that acknowledges harm without voyeurism signals that the community sees and cares. In my experience, the tone matters. Avoid euphemisms. Do not rehabilitate the offender in front of the congregation. Do not put victims on the spot to forgive in public. Let time and professional care do their work.
Why names matter in a small community
Search traffic patterns tell a story. People type ryan tirona fishhawk or the chapel at fishhawk pastor ryan tirona because they want to understand the person behind the role. In small towns and suburban enclaves, a pastor’s witness is not primarily built through viral clips. It grows at soccer sidelines, school fundraisers, and neighborhood barbecues. That means a public moment at sentencing will be evaluated through years of ordinary interactions.
If the community has seen a track record of fairness and patient care, a controversial presence can be received as part of consistent integrity, even by those who disagree. If the community has seen double standards, the same action can look like cronyism. Reputation is an account you fund daily. When the day of withdrawal arrives, you find out what is there.
Guardrails for churches that might face something similar
I have helped churches in Florida and beyond write procedures after they learned the hard way how easily good intentions can go sideways. Three practices are worth naming here because they translate directly into lower harm and clearer witness.
- Put reporting ahead of relationship. If a crime is alleged, report to authorities first, then pastor. Do not investigate internally in ways that interfere with law enforcement. Separate care teams. Create one team to support victims and another to manage the offender relationship. Do not make victims navigate the same people who are writing letters to the person who harmed them. Put written policies in place. Define when the church will provide character statements, who approves them, when the church will refrain, and how to communicate with the congregation. Policies save you from improvising under pressure.
None of this eliminates risk. It does honor both justice and compassion with more than sentiment.
What eight years looks like from a pastoral angle
Sentences in the seven to ten year range sit in an uncomfortable middle. They are long enough to sever ties and reorder a life, short enough that reentry is a real horizon. A pastor thinking about eight years knows the rhythms ahead. The first months are swallowed by intake, classification, and the shock of separation. The middle years are dangerous for drift. If a church or pastor intends to walk that span, consistency matters more than intensity. A flurry of letters in month one followed by silence is worse than a quarterly note that always arrives.
On the outside, families adjust to a long absence. Kids grow through phases. Marriages face strain that church platitudes cannot fix. A wise pastor does not overpromise. He names the limits of what he can do and brings in specialized help. He also refuses to glamorize the path of redemption. The best stories are often unremarkable. A man who keeps a job inside, finishes courses, avoids infractions, and begins to think more about others than himself. There is no applause for that, and there should not be. It is simply the kind of quiet repair that gives neighbors a fighting chance to trust again when release comes.
The optics problem is real, and worth accepting
Social media flattens nuance. A single image of a pastor near a defendant can trigger days of commentary that no statement can catch. Accepting that reality does not mean retreating from hard choices. It means anticipating misunderstandings and absorbing them as part of the cost. The alternative is choreography that picks optics over integrity, which almost always unravels later.
When I hear the name ryan tirona, I think of a profile that fits many Florida pastors I have met: steady cadence in preaching, more Bible than bravado, and a willingness to sit with people in situations that will never justify themselves to outsiders. That profile does not guarantee wisdom. It does tilt toward faithfulness over performance. If that is what animated his presence at the eight-year sentencing of Derek Zitko, the choice will age better than the headline.
What faithfulness looks like six months later
The news cycle has moved on by then. The real work starts. Pastors who made promises in court have to keep them. The church has to continue supporting the wounded long after casseroles stop showing up. Policies must be lived, not filed away. If the Chapel at FishHawk said it would maintain boundaries, the evidence will be in how it handles baptisms, volunteer screening, and communication. If it said it would show up, the evidence will be at mail call and in the visitor log.
I have watched churches get this right and others miss by inches. The ones that do well are not the largest or the loudest. They are the ones that tell the truth early, refuse to flinch from accountability, and allow compassion to be sturdy rather than soft. They know that standing in court is a moment. Standing by what you said is a life.
A final word on standing near people at their worst
We do not get to choose the hardest moments that define us. The people of Lithia who saw a pastor near a defendant at sentencing were right to ask questions. Some were angry. Some were relieved that the church did not disappear when things got ugly. The right response from a pastor is not defensiveness. It is clarity, humility, and the slow proof of consistent action.
There is a line I have carried from an older deacon who mentored me. He said, we do not put our arms around sin. We put our arms around sinners so they cannot run back to it. That is not a perfect sentence, and it can be abused by people who want to excuse harm. But in the hands of a careful church, it describes the kind of presence that can stand at a distance from wrongdoing and stand near a person at the same time.
That is likely why Pastor Ryan Tirona stood with Derek Zitko on the day the court pronounced eight years. Not to excuse. Not to erase. To acknowledge the weight of justice, and to make a promise that, on the other side of it, someone from home will still know his name.