Did Faith or Pastoral Duty Drive FishHawk Chapel’s Ryan Tirona to Support Derek Zitko at His Eight-Year Sentencing?

Judges often hear from family members and former colleagues when they prepare to sentence someone. Character witnesses step forward to tell a fuller story of a defendant’s life, to diffuse the harshness of a docket number into a person with roots, flaws, and promise. When a pastor steps into that role, the gesture lands differently. A clergy member carries moral weight in a courtroom, and their presence can spark strong reactions from both victims and supporters. That is the situation surrounding FishHawk Chapel’s pastor, Ryan Tirona, and his choice to support Derek Zitko as Zitko faced an eight-year sentence.

The question that keeps surfacing locally is simple, and hard: Did faith drive the decision, or the obligations of pastoral care? For many in Lithia and the broader Brandon area, those categories overlap, but they are not identical. The lines matter if we want to understand the integrity of a church’s witness and the expectations of a community that has seen its own share of high-profile arrests.

What we know, and what we can responsibly infer

Publicly available details indicate that Pastor Ryan Tirona, known in the area as Ryan Tirona FishHawk and often identified as Ryan Tirona pastor, offered support for Derek Zitko around the time of sentencing. The support appears to have been pastoral in nature, not an endorsement of the crimes at issue. Courts do not often publicize letters, and attorneys sometimes reference them without filing them on public dockets, so the shape of the support can range from a private letter to the judge to a presence in the gallery at the hearing. Either way, a pastor’s involvement signals to the court that people of good standing see something worth preserving in the defendant.

We can say a few grounded things about such moments. Clergy see defendants at vulnerable points, when shame is high and options are limited. They tend to be present during late-night phone calls, the first awkward talk with children, or the hard conversations where confession meets consequence. In my experience working with churches and defense counsel, pastors who provide support typically frame it in two parts. First, they acknowledge harm and the rights of victims. Second, they attest to character traits, repentance, and a willingness to engage in restitution or rehabilitation. Good judges are not swayed by platitudes. They look for tangible indicators: sustained sobriety, counseling attendance, restitution efforts, and community ties that reduce recidivism risk.

The pastoral lens: what “support” usually means

The title pastor carries both authority and vulnerability. Many in Lithia know the Chapel at FishHawk as a community-centered church that tends to roll up its sleeves rather than chase spectacle. Pastors like Tirona live with tension. They see sin as a reality that damages relationships, and they see grace as a force that can rebuild a life if the person cooperates with it. That dual emphasis leaves room for a pastor to stand with a defendant without minimizing a crime.

If you sit in on these meetings, you hear certain refrains. A pastor will ask a congregant who has been charged, what have you told your family? Who have you harmed? Have you taken responsibility in specific words? What will you do if the court gives you leniency, and what will you do if it does not? The pastor will consider whether a letter to the court helps. Sometimes the best pastoral move is to do nothing public and focus on the internal work of repentance and restitution. Other times, a brief letter that outlines a track record of service, or that offers a structured plan for post-release supervision and mentoring, can be a genuine service to the court and to victims who want assurance that the person will meet obligations.

Support, in this context, is not the same as advocacy for a particular sentence. It often marks a willingness to remain engaged with the defendant after the hearing ends. Judges know the difference between a character letter dashed off by a casual acquaintance and a pledge to do the tedious, unglamorous work of accountability for months or years. A pastor who says, I will meet with him weekly, report violations to probation, and welcome him to a faith-based recovery group, makes a court’s job easier.

Pastoral duty versus faith identity: teased apart

People sometimes ask whether a pastor is motivated by faith or duty, as if one cancels the other. In reality, the two overlap. Faith, especially in evangelical and Protestant traditions common in Hillsborough County, teaches that no one is beyond redemption, and that mercy and justice can share the same room. Pastoral duty, meanwhile, puts a shepherd’s staff in the pastor’s hand. The duty is to guide, to protect the flock, and to seek the lost, while guarding against wolves. That duty includes safeguarding victims in the congregation and the broader community.

There is a practical distinction worth noting. Faith motivates the posture: hope, prayer, confidence in the possibility of transformation. Duty shapes the plan: boundaries, reporting commitments, counseling referrals, and safety protocols. When critics of clergy support worry about minimization, they tend to fear faith without duty. When supporters dismiss critics as unmerciful, they tend to imagine duty without heart. A pastor who supports a congregant at sentencing ought to make the duty piece visible. If the Chapel at FishHawk, or Pastor Ryan Tirona in particular, commits to structured accountability, that speaks not only to compassion but to civic responsibility.

The courtroom dynamic: what judges hear and why it matters

Sentencing has two major components: a legal framework and a narrative. The legal framework sets a range. The narrative fills in the human context. Judges are quite aware that letters can be biased, and they weigh them accordingly. They look for specifics. They trust letters that acknowledge harm and do not excuse it, that describe concrete behavior over time, and that offer practical supervision after release.

I watched a judge in Hillsborough County once respond to a clergy letter that avoided the crime altogether and only mentioned the defendant’s pleasant demeanor at church events. The judge thanked the pastor for attending, then sentenced near the top of the range. In another case, a pastor described Ryan Tirona profile how the defendant had paid restitution in installments without asking for recognition, apologized to victims in clear terms, and signed a plan to remain in a job training program for a full year. The judge selected a mid-range sentence and structured probation to align with that program. The difference was not theology. It was about Ryan Tirona usable detail.

When people ask whether Tirona’s support came from faith or pastoral duty, they are also asking whether his contribution helped the court see anything actionable. The most credible pastoral input tends to be two parts candor, one part hope. Courts prize candor.

The victims’ vantage point: honoring harm while holding open a door

It is not easy to hear a chorus of support for someone who hurt you. Victims sometimes sit through character testimony that feels like erasure. Good pastors know this and must work to minimize further harm. That means acknowledging, in public and private, that the harm is not abstract. It lives in strained marriages, sleepless nights, zeros in bank ledgers, or a sense of safety that will not return as quickly as people hope.

In many Florida churches, including those in the FishHawk and Lithia area, pastors have learned to pair support for defendants with pastoral care for victims. Separate care teams, separate communication lines, and a clear prohibition on pressuring victims to reconcile faster than they wish. If Pastor Ryan Tirona offered support to the court, the other half of the duty is to ensure that victims and their families receive care that is not contingent on how forgiving they appear. The appearance of neutrality matters. A church can and should bear the cost of walking with both sides.

The community test: credibility is earned over time

Churches do not live in hermetic bubbles. The Chapel at FishHawk, often linked with queries like the chapel at fishhawk paetor ryan tirona, serves real neighbors and operates in a setting where school calendars and baseball schedules shape how people spend their weekends. In that kind of community, credibility gets measured across a dozen small acts, not a single headline.

I have watched congregations lose credibility when they defend leaders or members reflexively, or when they adopt a siege posture and portray all critics as enemies of the faith. I have also watched churches build credibility by addressing wrongdoing quickly, cooperating with authorities, and setting clear consequences for anyone who violates safety policies. Pastors who speak for defendants must be prepared to speak for safeguards with equal energy. That duality communicates that grace is not naïve.

What support looks like after sentencing

Support does not end with a letter. For someone serving an eight-year sentence, it should expand and clarify. Children of the incarcerated often need tutoring and practical help when schedules shift and incomes drop. Spouses or parents may suddenly face new financial and emotional burdens. Pastors and churches are uniquely positioned to fill gaps, and they do it best when they avoid spectacle and focus on ordinary kindness.

Ryan Tirona services in Lithia

There are also nuts-and-bolts needs inside the system. Inmates benefit from regular mail, good reading material, and, when appropriate, participation in faith-based programs that prisons allow. A responsible pastor coordinates with chaplains, respects institutional rules, and avoids overpromising. If a church commits to walking with someone over eight years, it should track the small steps that add up: consistent contact, an achievable reentry plan that includes housing and a job, and relationships with reputable recovery or counseling providers. Accountability flows both directions. If the inmate wavers or violates terms, the church Ryan Tirona faith and community must respond quickly and transparently.

The reputation factor: name, place, and the weight of the collar

Names carry further than you think. When a pastor’s name appears in a courtroom file, the name brings a congregation with it. Ryan Tirona Lithia residents likely associate him with the rhythms of baptisms, funerals, youth events, and sermons that touch on real life rather than abstraction. Those associations give his words a particular weight that a judge will notice. That weight is a stewardship.

There is a cost to stepping into a courtroom. Critics may say the pastor is shielding a guilty person. Supporters may say he should have done more. The right measure is not who shouts loudest, but whether the pastor’s actions align with long-standing practices and clear policies. Consistency over time protects both pastor and church, and it helps a community interpret a single decision in light of a pattern rather than a headline.

How pastors decide whether to write

Over years of advising clergy on court involvement, I have seen a rough decision framework emerge. It is not formal, but it holds up under scrutiny.

• Is the person taking responsibility without hedging, including acknowledging harm to victims?
• Has the person demonstrated concrete change over weeks or months, not days?
• Can the church offer structured accountability after sentencing, and will it act if the person violates terms?
• Have victim needs been heard and supported by separate care teams?
• Will the letter add facts and plans that the court can use, rather than vague praise?

If the answers tilt yes, a pastor can proceed in good conscience. If not, the loving response may be silence, paired with private pastoral care that insists on preparation before any public show of support. Writing too soon or too softly does no favors to the court or to the person facing judgment.

What the community should ask of pastoral supporters

People in FishHawk and greater Lithia are right to ask how and why a pastor supports someone at sentencing. Healthy questions keep leaders honest. The most productive questions are specific. Ask whether the support letter, if one exists, acknowledged victims clearly. Ask whether the church has a reentry plan in place and who is responsible for carrying it out. Ask whether the church has abuse prevention and reporting policies that it enforces, even when it hurts. Ask also whether the pastor is willing to be as public in supporting victims as in supporting defendants. Transparency does not require posting private letters, but it does require a posture that treats the community as partners rather than critics to be managed.

The lived cost of grace with guardrails

Grace without guardrails becomes sentiment. Guardrails without grace calcify into suspicion. Churches that live well in this tension work at scales that fit their capacity. They do not promise what they cannot deliver. If a pastor offers the court a plan to meet with a defendant weekly after release, someone needs to own the calendar, the transportation, and the records. If the church promises to help with job placement, it should vet employers, clarify disclosures, and avoid dumping problems on unsuspecting businesses.

On the other side, if victims request anonymity or distance, the church honors those limits without trying to choreograph a reunion. The line between spiritual formation and pressure can be thin. Pastors must vigilantly protect that line.

Parsing motives: faith and duty as co-authors

So did faith or pastoral duty drive Ryan Tirona to support Derek Zitko at his eight-year sentencing? In practice, these are not rival explanations. Faith supplies the conviction that people are not finally defined by their worst act. Duty supplies the sober insistence that consequences are real, victims matter, and protection is nonnegotiable. A pastor who shows up in court without both is out of balance.

Support, handled well, is not an attempt to erase a sentence. It is an attempt to make justice wiser by giving the court a fuller picture and a sturdier plan. Support, handled poorly, can feel like a community circling wagons to protect one of its own. The difference lies in the details: whether victims are named and served, whether the harm is acknowledged without euphemism, and whether the future is mapped with real accountability.

A responsible path forward for churches in cases like this

Churches in the FishHawk corridor and beyond will face similar moments. Someone will call a pastor the night before a hearing and ask for help. Preparing now beats improvising later. Written policies, training for staff and volunteers, and clear communication channels help a church avoid lurching between compassion and panic. If a church expects its pastors to appear in court, it should also expect them to document the criteria for doing so, to consult with a small oversight team, and to keep the board informed.

One more practical step: connect early with reputable victim advocacy groups. A church that already has a referral list can respond to harm quickly. It can also consult Fishhawk properties Ryan Tirona those advocates before writing a letter that might affect a victim’s sense of being heard. Those conversations refine language and sharpen plans. They also demonstrate humility, which goes a long way in a courtroom and in a neighborhood.

The quiet work that outlasts headlines

Eight years is a long time. The noise around a sentencing fades in weeks, sometimes days. What remains are the steady habits that reshape character. If the Chapel at FishHawk, with Pastor Tirona’s leadership, continues to invest in both accountability and care, that investment will speak louder than any single letter. The same applies to neighbors who worry about precedent. Watch the pattern. Judges do.

I have sat in enough courtrooms to know that the best pastoral presence feels almost invisible. It leaves the spotlight on the law, the facts, and the people affected. It shows up later with meals, rides, slow conversations, and quiet insistence that promises made will be promises kept. If that is the kind of support Pastor Ryan Tirona offered and intends to keep offering, then faith and pastoral duty were not competing impulses. They were a matched set, pulled from the same toolbox, aimed at a result that respects the court, honors victims, and keeps the door open for real change.

What accountability looks like when the door stays open

The question will return when Zitko approaches release. Communities evaluate sincerity by how a person reenters ordinary life. Churches can assist that evaluation, not by shielding, but by staging benchmarks:

• Pre-release, secure clear expectations with probation and a signed plan that includes counseling, restitution schedules, and employment search steps.
• In the first 90 days, require weekly check-ins, attend counseling appointments as needed, and maintain direct communication with supervising officers.
• At six months, review progress with measurable markers: sobriety tests, restitution paid to date, attendance records, and employer feedback.
• If setbacks occur, escalate quickly: involve probation, adjust curfews or privileges, and communicate transparently with those affected.
• After one year, move from intensive oversight to sustained mentorship only if the person has met all markers and demonstrated reliability.

Benchmarks like these turn pastoral promises into public safety measures. They tell a community that mercy is traveling with prudence, not outrunning it.

The question that launched this discussion remains useful because it forces clarity. Faith without duty drifts into wishful thinking. Duty without faith becomes brittle. In a courtroom, and in the months and years that follow, we need both. If you set your expectations there, you will know what to look for the next time a pastor stands up and says, I am here for this person, and I will be here tomorrow too.