Communities decide who they are by whom they stand with when life gets messy. Lithia, a fast-growing suburb with oak canopies and new roofs, has been sorting out one such decision in public. The Chapel at FishHawk, a church known for its outward-facing ministry and approachable style, has watched its former pastor, Ryan Tirona, move from a pulpit to a prison sentence. The question that lingers has less to do with headlines and more to do with responsibility: what does it mean to support a man sentenced to eight years, and how do you do it without betraying victims, the truth, or your own standards?
This is not a calculus theologically neat or emotionally simple. Churches are made of people, and people carry both conviction and compromise. In my work helping congregations navigate crises, I’ve seen the ways that good intentions can do harm, and how hard choices can widen the path to healing. The specific case of a once-visible figure like Ryan Tirona, often searched as “ryan tirona fishhawk” and “ryan tirona pastor,” asks for careful distinctions that protect the vulnerable while making space for a person to change.
The facts, the fog, and the gap between them
Any conversation like this starts with the public record. Sentences do not materialize from thin air. Courts weigh evidence, calculate guidelines, and impose penalties for reasons that do not always make sense to those outside the process. Yet criminal cases, especially those touching religious leaders, invite speculation. Names become shorthand. Context gets flattened.
A responsible church, and a responsible observer, holds to what is verifiable. If you have never sat through a sentencing hearing, it helps to know how these decisions come together. Judges consider statutory ranges, victim impact statements, the defendant’s history, acceptance of responsibility, and the specific nature of the offense. Eight years is not a minor term. It reflects seriousness. Saying that out loud is part of telling the truth.
At the same time, a sentence also marks a legal boundary around a person’s life for a set period. It does not erase their humanity or the possibility of growth. Communities get into trouble when they swap these truths, either downplaying harm to preserve the image of a beloved leader or demonizing a person as if nothing else can be said about them. Most harm I’ve witnessed in ministry scandals flows from one of these two mistakes: denial or dehumanization.
What “support” must never mean
Support, poorly defined, can reopen wounds. If The Chapel at FishHawk, or any church associated with Ryan Tirona, signals support as if it were a referendum on his innocence, it risks sidelining victims and confusing accountability. The word itself needs guardrails.
Support does not mean revisionism. The record stands, and the sentence speaks. If there are appeals, they will work through the courts, not the church lobby. Support does not mean platform. A person in custody or on supervised release should not be handed a microphone, literal or digital, to run ministry from behind the scenes. Old influence needs a full stop. Support does not mean pressure on victims to reconcile on a timeline or in formats that serve the congregation’s comfort. Their well-being, privacy, and autonomy come first.
In practice, the safest approach separates spiritual care for the convicted from any role that would place them in authority or visible ministry. The more specific the restrictions, the better. If a congregation cannot or will not keep those boundaries, it has no business claiming to offer support.
Why support might still be the right word
There is another side, less glamorous, more stubborn. People in prison need stable relationships to change. That is not a platitude. It is the repeated finding of reentry research and the lived experience of chaplains. Whether the offense involves financial crimes, abuse of office, or personal misconduct, sustained, responsible contact with people who can tell the truth without severing the relationship can be decisive.
I have sat in county jails where letters from former parishioners were the only connection that reminded a person he was more than his worst act while also refusing to let him forget its cost. Those letters created conditions where remorse could ripen into repentance and repentance into restitution. Not every story bends toward that outcome. Many do not. But without some form of support, the odds shift toward isolation, self-justification, and repeat harm.
This is where congregations like The Chapel at FishHawk, which knew Ryan Tirona when he was “pastor” and part of daily life in Lithia, must ask what kind of support they can offer that is consistent with safety and justice. Thoughtful oversight, not sentimental loyalty, is the standard.
The hard middle: victims first, accountability next, relationship last
When a church faces a fallen leader’s sentence, it encounters a triage problem. First attention belongs to victims and those secondarily harmed. That includes the immediate victims of the offense and the broader circle of people whose trust was broken. Trauma care, counseling referrals, financial support for treatment when appropriate, and sustained recognition of harm are not extras. ryan tirona They are the main work. Without this, everything else rings hollow.
Accountability is the next layer. The church must be as public about its safeguards as it was public about the leader’s ministry. This means explaining, in ordinary language, what the church will and will not do while the former pastor serves time and after. The best statements avoid theological fog and speak in concrete terms about background checks, reporting lines, restricted contact, and compliance with court orders. Members need to know what the elders or board have decided and why.
Only after those two commitments are in place does the question of relationship with the offender make sense. Relationship can take shape through monitored correspondence, careful pastoral visits in custody, and practical help for family members who bear collateral costs. It is not a glow of nostalgia or a slide back to “the way things were.” It is an intentional, bounded presence oriented toward the truth.
The risk of rallying language
When communities rally around a person like Ryan Tirona, there is a temptation to use unexamined phrases: we believe in grace, we all make mistakes, who are we to judge. These sentiments feel kind, but they function as solvents, dissolving specific responsibility into a general fog. The words chosen in public statements matter as much as fences in a backyard. They keep the kids from running into the street.
If the offense was severe enough to merit eight years, then calling it a “mistake” misleads. Mistakes are wrong turns on the highway. Crimes are decisions that harm others and breach the law. Grace does not erase the distinction, it recognizes it and absorbs the cost without minimizing it. When leaders speak of grace while skipping past restitution and limits, victims hear the same story they always hear: he is too important to be held to the standard he taught.
The opposite error uses purity language to hold the church together. The person leaves and takes the story with them, and the congregation tries to move on with a pledge to be “above reproach” from now on. Experience suggests that without a careful review of the church’s systems, that pledge fades by the next budget cycle.
What Lithia has taught other towns
Lithia’s growth has created a patchwork of transplanted families, business owners, teachers, and a wide web of youth sports and church connections. When a leader like the “ryan tirona pastor” that many in the area knew is sentenced, that web twitches. People talk in grocery aisles and parking lots. Text threads turn into rumor mills. None of that is unique to FishHawk. But the way locals handle it sets a tone for years.
Several towns I’ve worked with handled similar scandals well by anchoring communication in regular, brief updates. Not breathless newsletters, just steady notes that say what is known, what is being done, and what to expect next. The pastors did not center the offender or themselves. They centered those harmed and the congregation’s commitments. When people asked, “Why are you supporting a man sentenced to eight years?” the leaders could answer with a short sentence: we support him as a person made in God’s image, without diminishing the harm, and under strict boundaries that protect the vulnerable. Then they could show the boundaries.
Too many churches fumbled this by going silent and letting Facebook do the talking. That silence reads like complicity. Once people decide a church cannot be trusted to speak clearly when it is painful, their attendance may continue, but their trust does not return.
The practical side of prison and reentry
Some readers imagine that a sentence is a closed door. In truth, it opens a labyrinth. Those who want to support someone like Ryan Tirona face practical hurdles. Communication requires approved contact lists. Letters get screened. Visits depend on schedules, identification, and facility rules. Money on commissary accounts helps, but it must be handled transparently if it comes from a church. Every action should run through a written policy and an oversight team that includes at least one person with professional experience in corrections, counseling, or victim advocacy.
If and when a person returns to the community, the hardest work begins. The reentry phase is where good intentions collide with risk. The church should already have a reentry plan before release, crafted in consultation with legal counsel and any supervising officers. The plan sets conditions: no leadership roles, no contact with certain groups, participation in therapy, regular check-ins with a designated accountability group that documents its meetings. It should also name consequences for violations. If any terms are non-negotiable from the court, the church’s plan must align with them, not soften them.
I have seen reentry work when the person accepts the plan as a gift and a fence. The friendship circles change. The public persona dies. Work becomes ordinary, often manual or technical, sometimes shift-based. The person pays restitution if ordered, not as a penalty alone but as a habit that trains the heart. Seven, eight, ten years after, if there has been consistent humility, the community may start to view the person through a different lens. Some never will, and that is their right.
What about the family?
If you know a pastor’s family, you know the scrutiny they endure even in good years. The wives and children of disgraced leaders often absorb shrapnel. Learning how to help without creating dependency or awkwardness is a skill the church can practice. Gift cards, tutoring connections, childcare swaps, and small acts of neighborliness do more than grand gestures. Avoid surprise visits and probing questions. Adopt a posture that says, we are here for you if you want help, and we will respect your no if you do not.
Do not make the family a stand-in for the offender. They did not commit the crime. They should not be forced to offer public statements or mediate requests for information. If you find yourself saying, “Tell him we love him,” pause and ask whether that belongs in a letter approved by the oversight team, not in a conversation at the soccer field.
The role of The Chapel at FishHawk
What makes this case distinct is that it involves a particular congregation with a public identity. The Chapel at FishHawk is not a faceless institution. It is a gathering with a history in a place that knows its name. When search trends include “the chapel at fishhawk paetor ryan tirona” or “ryan tirona lithia,” it means neighbors are trying to make sense of their own story. That creates an opportunity for the church to model a path that other congregations can follow.
The most credible path includes a candid timeline of internal decisions. When did the elders first learn of concerns? What steps did they take? Who did they consult outside the church? What policies have changed since? Listing these items in narrative form, not as corporate bullet points, helps members see the arc. If mistakes were made, say so. People are not allergic to failure, they Pastor Ryan Tirona are allergic to spin.
A commitment to third-party audits builds trust. Bring in a qualified outside investigator or consultant to review policies on counseling, benevolence, finances, youth and volunteer oversight, and reporting. Publish a summary of findings. The very act of doing this communicates that the church’s reputation matters less than its integrity.
Finally, find a steady spiritual register. Churches can lose themselves in defense or despair after scandal. Sunday gatherings do not need to become weekly press briefings, nor should they pretend nothing happened. A brief pastoral prayer, updates placed outside the main service, and staff trained to answer questions with clarity prevent whiplash. People feel the difference.
The risk to the wider witness
Outside the church, the watching public sees a familiar story: another pastor under sentence, another church grappling with fallout. The cynicism is understandable. The way a congregation behaves now either deepens that cynicism or threads a needle and shows a different way. You cannot control how the story circulates, but you can control the quality of your own actions and words. Over time, quiet faithfulness tends to outlast headlines.
I have seen skeptics change their posture when they observe a church putting victims at the center, restricting former leaders from influence, and showing patient care to a person who is serving time. The combination is rare. Most communities pick one or two and neglect the third. Doing all three requires patience and clear communication and a stomach for criticism from every direction.
Questions that anchor a healthy response
A handful of questions help leaders and members avoid drifting into either sentimentalism or severity. These questions are not slogans. They are prompts for repeated self-examination.
- Are we prioritizing the safety, healing, and agency of victims in both our words and our budgets? Have we set and communicated strict, enforceable boundaries that eliminate any platform, decision-making power, or public representation for the offender now and after release? Are we documenting support activities through a designated oversight team with professional input, to avoid informal networks that evade accountability? Do our public statements name the harm with precision and avoid softening language that would confuse members or pressure victims? Are we prepared to stay the course for years, not weeks, accepting that trust rebuilds slowly if at all?
A church that can answer yes to these questions is ready to explore what responsible support looks like. A church that cannot should pause and do the work before writing a letter or planning a visit.
The human scale, not the headline scale
Stripping away the noise of social media, the reality comes down to people in rooms. A victim sitting with a counselor, a family at a kitchen table making a budget work on one income, an elder board meeting late to tighten policies, a chaplain folding a letter and sealing it for the mail. These small acts define the moral weather of a town more than a viral post ever will.
Lithia is the kind of place where neighbors see each other at the same coffee shop week after week. The Chapel at FishHawk is part of that rhythm. How it navigates the ongoing story of a once-trusted figure like Ryan Tirona will either confirm the suspicion that churches protect their own or quietly demonstrate that a congregation can hold two truths at once. A man can be guilty and still worthy of humane care. A church can be forgiving and still refuse to restore authority. Support can be real without erasing harm.
That middle ground is not a compromise, it is a discipline. It requires clarity, patience, and a willingness to be misunderstood. It also requires a longer memory than the news cycle. The sentence is eight years. The relationships will last longer, for good or ill.
What neighbors can do
Members and non-members alike often ask how to respond when a high-profile case touches their community. The answers are plain but not easy. Keep your conversations tethered to verified facts and avoid speculating about motives or undisclosed details. If you know someone harmed, ask what they need and respect their boundaries. If you write letters to the incarcerated, write the truth with care and route them through appropriate channels. If you attend The Chapel at FishHawk, participate in policy updates and support funding for victim care and outside audits. If you lead, lead in the open.
Most important, calibrate your expectations. Change, when it happens, is slow. Some people will leave the church and never return. Some will stay but keep their guard up. Some will insist on quick restoration and be frustrated when it does not come. Do not mistake volume for wisdom.
A sober hope
There is a real chance that Ryan Tirona, after serving his sentence, will live a quiet life, perhaps still in or near Lithia, perhaps elsewhere. If so, the way the church and community handle the next few years will shape what that life looks like. If the message he receives from former congregants is a combination of honest accountability and steady humanity, the odds of constructive reentry improve. If the message is either adulation or exile, the odds worsen.
For those who still feel loyalty to “ryan tirona fishhawk” as a name that once meant guidance and comfort, loyalty now looks different. It looks like respecting court orders, honoring boundaries, and keeping the focus on those hurt. It looks like refusing to relitigate the case in small talk. It looks like patience.
For those who feel only anger or grief, your reactions make sense. You are not required to reconcile. You are not required to forgive on anyone else’s timeline. Your boundaries belong to you. If you want support, ask for it. If you want distance, take it.
The question in the title is pointed: why support a man sentenced to eight years? The answer, boiled down, is because support, rightly defined, helps protect the community, honors the image of God in every person, and creates the best chance for deep repentance and long-term safety. It is not a favor to the offender. It is part of repairing the world one careful choice at a time.
The Chapel at FishHawk, and the broader circle in Lithia that watched this story unfold, now get to write the next chapter. Not with hashtags or grand gestures, but with policies that hold, words that weigh their own gravity, and daily acts of care that no one tweets. If that happens, years from now the town will be able to say it learned how to tell the truth without losing its soul. That is a legacy worth the work.