Seth Williams entered the makeshift classroom at Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility in Northeast Philadelphia \u2014 one of four such facilities within city limits and 85 throughout the state \u2014 with the calm and hope of a seasoned pastor. His black pullover, marked with \u201cCHAPLAIN\u201d in bold yellow letters, was both a badge and a reminder. Williams had lived on both sides of the law. He was celebrated, disgraced and changed by his experiences.<\/p>\n
Few people would choose the journey from Philadelphia\u2019s first Black district attorney to a federal inmate and then to a prison chaplain. Yet here, where the air smells of cinder block and disinfectant, Williams has built something new.<\/p>\n
Each Thursday Williams, 59, leads the Prison Poets class, gathering men with different sentences and stories. They meet in a bright gray room with chalk dust and a few empty bookshelves. Across the hall, behind thick glass, the sounds of prison industry continue as men were making stationery for the same city that once had Williams\u2019 name on its letterhead.<\/p>\n
Williams greeted the group of inmates with handshakes, hugs, and a wide smile. His arrival felt like an event, giving everyone permission to relax. Officers and officials, even the warden, welcomed him with hugs, handshakes, and jokes. Williams smiled back and greeted many by name.<\/p>\n
Former Philadelphia District Attorney Williams once stood as the city\u2019s top prosecutor. Today, he walks the halls of Philadelphia\u2019s prisons offering spiritual guidance to the incarcerated, a role he said was shaped by his own fall from power, time behind bars and a transformative journey of faith.<\/p>\n
Williams, the first African American elected as the city\u2019s district attorney in 2009, recently was named director of chaplaincy and religious services for the Philadelphia Department of Prisons.<\/p>\n
The appointment marks another chapter in a career that has included service as a criminal attorney, the city\u2019s inspector general and a U.S. Army Judge Advocate General officer.<\/p>\n
For Williams, however, the path to prison chaplain began with one of the darkest periods of his life.<\/p>\n
In June 2017, Williams pleaded guilty to a federal corruption charge and resigned as district attorney. He admitted accepting cash and gifts, including a Caribbean vacation, from a businessman in exchange for official favors. Although he expected to remain free on bail until sentencing, a judge immediately revoked his bail.<\/p>\n
Williams was handcuffed in court and taken directly into federal custody.<\/p>\n
\u201cI lost everything in one day,\u201d he told The Philadelphia Tribune. \u201cMy house, my car, my pension, my law license, my reputation, time with loved ones, everything.\u201d<\/p>\n
A federal judge sentenced Williams to five years. He served nearly three before being released in 2020.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Seth Williams conducts a Prison Poets session about haiku at Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility in Northeast Philadelphia. The former Philadelphia district attorney now serves as director of chaplaincy and religious services for the Philadelphia Department of Prisons, where he helps incarcerated men develop communication and life skills through creative expression. \u2014TRIBUNE PHOTO\/ABDUL R. SULAYMAN<\/p>\n
\u2018When I was in prison\u2019<\/p>\n
For the next two hours inside the makeshift classroom at Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility, the 11 men in Williams\u2019 class \u2014 usually there are 14 \u2014 could let go of the defenses prison requires. They recited their creed: \u201cBehind us are the challenges we met; before us are new possibilities. Today we choose the direction of our lives.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, possibility felt real.<\/p>\n
To Williams, poetry is a powerful tool. He begins each session with haiku \u2014 17 syllables, three lines \u2014 a small act of order during chaos. \u201cA haiku,\u201d Williams says, \u201cexpresses much and suggests more in the fewest possible words.\u201d He reminds the men that even the smallest cell cannot confine the mind. As they write and share their work, the mood in the room changes.<\/p>\n
Handshakes. Hugs. Fist bumps.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood morning,\u201d Williams bellows. \u201cGood morning,\u201d the 11 respond as if they were a chorus.<\/p>\n
One inmate skipped someone in the greeting line. Williams laughed.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou forgot your only line,\u201d the man now known as \u201cChap,\u201d quipped.<\/p>\n
Laughter filled the room. For a few moments, it felt less like jail and more like a classroom where everyone knew each other\u2019s name.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo why do we always start class this way?\u201d Williams asked after everyone settled into their seats.<\/p>\n
\u201cRespect,\u201d one inmate answered.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat else?\u201d Williams retorted. \u201cIt shows respect,\u201d the inmate stated, and Williams nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen I was in prison,\u201d Williams relayed, \u201cI never saw so many grown men go out of their way to be polite to each other.\u201d<\/p>\n
He paused. \u201cAnd why?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t want conflict,\u201d the inmate correctly answered.<\/p>\n
Another inmate laughed. \u201cYou don\u2019t want to get stomped,\u201d he noted.<\/p>\n
More laughter. Williams smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf we practiced those same skills outside these walls,\u201d he said quietly, \u201cwe probably wouldn\u2019t be here.\u201d<\/p>\n
The class is called Prison Poets, but poetry isn\u2019t their main focus.<\/p>\n
For almost an hour, the men focus on life skills. One serves as facilitator. Another gives the weather. Someone delivers sports. Another reports the news.<\/p>\n
Each person stands in front of the class. Everyone practices speaking clearly, making eye contact, and accepting feedback without getting defensive.<\/p>\n
\u201cI learned while I was incarcerated that about 85% of what helps people keep a job has nothing to do with the actual work,\u201d Williams told them. \u201cIt\u2019s showing up on time. It\u2019s how you treat people. It\u2019s how you respond when somebody makes you angry.\u201d<\/p>\n
The lesson, he said, isn\u2019t simply about employment.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s about getting by and surviving.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf we can teach people conflict de-escalation,\u201d he said, \u201cwe can help them keep jobs. We can help them stay out of prison.\u201d<\/p>\n
The men then stood together to recite the class creed, words they knew by heart.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Seth Williams speaks with participants during a Prison Poets class at Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility in Philadelphia. The weekly program combines creative writing, personal development and conflict de-escalation lessons for incarcerated men.<\/p>\n
\u2014TRIBUNE PHOTO\/ABDUL R. SULAYMAN<\/p>\n
\u2014TRIBUNE PHOTO\/ABDUL R. SULAYMAN<\/p>\n
Pursuing a doctorate<\/p>\n
As director of chaplaincy and religious services, Williams oversees pastoral care, spiritual programming and interfaith services throughout Philadelphia\u2019s correctional facilities. The office coordinates clergy members, religious volunteers and counseling services intended to support incarcerated individuals.<\/p>\n
His responsibilities range from leading Bible studies and recovery groups to helping inmates process devastating personal news.<\/p>\n
\u201cSometimes I have to tell people their mother died or their brother was killed,\u201d Williams said. \u201cOther times, I\u2019m helping someone through depression, grief or anger. I just try to spread hope and joy where I can.\u201d<\/p>\n
Williams\u2019 interest in prison ministry evolved long before he officially joined the department. Several years ago, he launched a consulting firm focused on helping military veterans and formerly incarcerated people successfully reenter society. He also volunteered within the prison system before being selected for his current position in June.<\/p>\n
His work now intersects with his academic pursuits. Williams is pursuing a Doctor of Ministry in Spirituality, Leadership & Justice at Union Theological Seminary in New York, where he plans to focus his dissertation on the relationship between spiritual formation and recidivism reduction.<\/p>\n
Reducing repeat offenses has been a passion throughout his career as a prosecutor, defense attorney and reform advocate.<\/p>\n
Williams cites research suggesting that consistent participation in faith-based programming can significantly lower recidivism rates. While education, job training and substance-abuse treatment remain critical, he said he believes spiritual development can play an equally important role.<\/p>\n
\u201cLearning and practicing your faith has a significant impact on reducing recidivism because it helps people understand forgiveness, reconciliation, hope and love,\u201d Williams said.<\/p>\n
His perspective is informed not only by academic study but also by firsthand experience inside prison.<\/p>\n
\u201cDespite having been a lawyer, a prosecutor and a defense attorney, it wasn\u2019t until I found myself incarcerated that I actually saw what goes on inside prisons,\u201d he said. \u201cIt opened my eyes.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Seth Williams checks on an inmate at Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility while delivering religious materials. As director of chaplaincy and religious services for the Philadelphia Department of Prisons, Williams provides spiritual guidance and support to incarcerated individuals throughout the city\u2019s prison system. \u2014PHILADELPHIA DEPARTMENT OF PRISONS PHOTO<\/p>\n
Solitary confinement<\/p>\n
Back in the classroom Williams calls on student Joseph Reed.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy gratitude list is always simple,\u201d Reed began as several inmates smiled. They had heard this before.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe sun shining in my cell,\u201d he posits.<\/p>\n
The smiles disappeared. \u201cWater,\u201d he says. Another pause. \u201cPeople to talk to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Williams leaned on a desk.<\/p>\n
\u201cEvery week he says the sun,\u201d the chaplain said. \u201cWhen I was in solitary confinement, I spent five months without feeling sunlight.\u201d<\/p>\n
Williams remembered the narrow strip of sky he could barely see from an outdoor recreation cage and writing letters to his daughters.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019d tell them, \u2018Next time it rains, go outside,\u201d he recounted. \u201cStand there. Let the rain hit your face. Then write me and tell me what it feels like.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
The room was quiet as Reed explained why gratitude had become so important.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m a negative person,\u201d he said. \u201cI struggle with depression.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was a time, Reed admitted, when addiction had left him homeless and alone.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought about killing myself every day because I didn\u2019t think anybody cared if I lived or died,\u201d he remarked.<\/p>\n
No one seemed surprised, and no one judged Reed for it.<\/p>\n
Across the room sat Ronald Woodward. Thirty-one years old. Five months into his incarceration.<\/p>\n
Earlier, he had laughed with everyone else, applauded every presentation, and joked with classmates. Now, his face changed.<\/p>\n
He said his social worker encouraged him to join the class after learning what had happened in his life. His mother died of a drug overdose when he was 7 years old.<\/p>\n
Years later, after building a family of his own, another betrayal broke him.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy wife of 10 years had an affair with my father,\u201d he said quietly, redness swelling beneath his eyes.<\/p>\n
For several seconds, no one moved.<\/p>\n
The room that had been full of laughter moments earlier was now silent.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think you\u2019ve survived everything,\u201d Woodward said. \u201cThen the people you love the most hurt you the most.\u201d<\/p>\n
An inmate across the room softly shook his head. \u201cThat\u2019s enough to break anybody,\u201d the classmate acknowledged.<\/p>\n
Williams didn\u2019t interrupt or preach.<\/p>\n
Finally, he looked at Woodward. \u201cBut you\u2019re still here,\u201d Williams reassured.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m trying,\u201d the devastated prisoner admitted.<\/p>\n
Later, Woodward explained why he keeps coming back every week.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf Seth can do it,\u201d he said, \u201cI can do it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Woodward said he hopes the class will help him rebuild his construction business, repair broken relationships and avoid making the same mistakes.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s giving me tools,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s giving me hope.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Seth Williams listens as an inmate shares his work during a Prison Poets class at Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility in Philadelphia. Williams leads the weekly program, which uses poetry, discussion and personal reflection to encourage growth and accountability among participants. \u2014TRIBUNE PHOTO\/ABDUL R. SULAYMAN<\/p>\n
Federal prison shakedown<\/p>\n
Williams said he knows what hopelessness feels like.<\/p>\n
He told the class about a federal prison shakedown during which officers handcuffed him, dumped his letters across the floor and confiscated the books that had become his escape, including his Bible.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt was the first time I cried in prison,\u201d Williams said.<\/p>\n
He asked the men what would have happened if he had attacked the officer.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey would\u2019ve beat you,\u201d they said, almost in unison. \u201cThey would\u2019ve added time.\u201d<\/p>\n
Williams then asked a question.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, what was I really in control of?\u201d<\/p>\n
Before anyone answered, he did.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy response,\u201d Williams argued.<\/p>\n
That lesson surfaced again after an officer confiscated one inmate\u2019s pen before class.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat were you thinking?\u201d Williams asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was mad,\u201d the inmate responded.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat stopped you?\u201d Williams again asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy daughters,\u201d the young man stated.<\/p>\n
He said he realized that getting angry could mean more time in jail and more time away from the people waiting for him outside.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, I let it go,\u201d he offered.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s conflict de-escalation,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Symbol of comfort<\/p>\n
During his incarceration, Williams immersed himself in educational and mentoring programs. He taught GED classes, workforce development courses and poetry. He learned to play the saxophone and eventually performed \u201cAmazing Grace\u201d during an Easter Mass.<\/p>\n
One achievement remains especially meaningful to him.<\/p>\n
\u201cNineteen of the men I taught earned their GEDs,\u201d he said. \u201cThat\u2019s one of the accomplishments I\u2019m most proud of.\u201d<\/p>\n
His experiences behind bars also inspired two programs he later developed for incarcerated individuals: Career Keepers, which focuses on employment readiness; and Prison Poets, a creative-writing initiative.<\/p>\n
Williams said successful reentry depends on a combination of education, treatment and personal transformation.<\/p>\n
Drawing on lessons learned through an Eisenhower Fellowship that took him to Australia and South Africa to study restorative justice, he said the most effective strategies for reducing recidivism include educational attainment, substance-abuse treatment and strong spiritual support systems.<\/p>\n
Now, instead of prosecuting defendants, Williams finds himself serving people who often are experiencing the worst moments of their lives.<\/p>\n
His chaplain\u2019s shirt has become a symbol of comfort for many inmates.<\/p>\n
\u201cPeople get excited when they see that word \u2018Chaplain\u2019 on my back,\u201d he said. \u201cWhether someone is Christian, Muslim, Jewish, another faith or no faith at all, they know there\u2019s someone they can talk to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Moments after finishing his interview with The Tribune, Williams said he was preparing to meet with an incarcerated man whose brother had recently been murdered.<\/p>\n
Those moments, he said, remind him why he accepted the position.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen I was in prison, it didn\u2019t matter whether it was a rabbi, a priest or an imam walking through the hallway,\u201d Williams said. \u201cYou knew that was someone you could talk to and bare your soul to. I just try to be that person now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u2018The greatest title\u2019<\/p>\n
Finally, it was time to write inside the Prison Poets classroom. Nate Williams stood and unfolded his paper.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy poem is called \u2018Respect,\u2019\u201d he said, reading slowly.<\/p>\n
Like leaves carried by the breeze.<\/p>\n
The room filled with applause.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think the publisher of The Tribune would print that,\u201d Seth Williams joked.<\/p>\n
Soon correctional officers were back at the door.<\/p>\n
One by one, the men picked up their notebooks, shook hands again, and walked out through another set of steel doors.<\/p>\n
Seth Williams stayed behind, stacking his lesson plans before heading across the prison. One inmate waited for news about his child being taken off of life support, and another needed help coping with the loss of a loved one.<\/p>\n
Williams said he never imagined this would become his life\u2019s work.<\/p>\n
\u201cEvery morning,\u201d he said, \u201cI ask God to use me however He sees fit.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked around the empty classroom.<\/p>\n
\u201cOther than being called Dad,\u201d he said, \u201cthe greatest title I\u2019ve ever had is chaplain.\u201d<\/p>\n