Today (July 30, 2026) would have been Father Bill’s 95th birthday. If you were fortunate enough to know him, you’ve probably said something along these lines about Father Bill: “they broke the mold” or “there will never be another Father Bill” or “he was one of a kind” or “one of the blessings of my life was knowing Father Bill.”

William J. Hultberg, Jr. was special in so many ways … as a priest, as a counselor and educator, as a decorated serviceman, as a friend, and as a person in recovery. Father Bill was a rule-breaker and a revolutionary. He was a friend and mentor to the homeless and the famous; “old drunks” and “puppy drunks;” atheists, agnostics, and people of all belief systems; veterans, sex workers, clerics, doctors, cops and thieves. He believed in granting absolution to “his people,” whose acts may have been wrong, but whose addiction took away their free will.

Father Bill loved animals, Frank Sinatra, and Scrapple with ketchup. He took frequent trips to Florida to visit “street meetings,” which kept him abreast of trends and shored up his connection to the sick and suffering.

From 1984 to his retirement in 2015, Father Bill was called to serve as the Spiritual Advisor at Caron Treatment Center in Wernersville, PA as an addiction counselor, Director of Pastoral Care, and Assistant to the President. His Sunday chapel service at Chit Chat Auditorium became the heart of Caron’s treatment program. Father Bill ministered to patients, staff, Caron alums, family members and friends, offering spiritual and religious counseling and helping patients to understand the 12-Step spirituality of recovery. He developed and implemented a spiritual program of support for HIV-positive and AIDS patients and played an integral role in developing HIV retreats hosted by Caron.

With 35 years of service with the U.S. Army and Navy, Father Bill retired as a Lieutenant Colonel in 1991. As a Navy Chaplain, he served with the Marines in the Vietnam War, where he received the Bronze Star Medal with “Combat V” for valor. As an active duty Chaplain with the U.S. Army, he also received four Meritorious Service Medals for his work in developing and implementing alcohol and drug prevention programs.

Father Bill was devoted to his order of 61 years, the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales. He was also faithful to his Wilmington friends and family, his fellow Salesianum School alums, and the U.S. Army, Army Reserves, Navy and Marines.

Visit this webpage, dedicated to Father Bill: https://conversation.zone/fatherbill

You’ll find

  • A list of “Father Bill-isms”
  • A brief biography (someone really needs to write a book about him!)
  • Photos
  • Links to videos
  • His Caron Chapel prayer
  • Some of his words of wisdom

Post your own memories and photos on the “Share Your Memories…” page to celebrate, honor, and never forget this special man:
https://conversation.zone/2020/06/14/share/

  • What was your favorite Father Bill saying or message?
  • What made him so unique?
  • What do you miss most about him?

On a more personal note …

In March of 2010, my then-husband, Michael, and I were preparing for our son’s intervention, desperately hoping that he’d agree to be admitted to Caron Treatment Center. Included in an email from their admissions office was a weekly patient schedule. Something that caught my eye was that “Caron Chapel” was mandatory for all patients. Our family has never followed any organized religion, so I was very concerned that my son would feel out of place, and I questioned why a rehab had this kind of practice. I called and asked if patients definitely had to attend, and the wise woman on the phone said something like, “Trust me. It’s not what you’re thinking.” She wasn’t kidding!

My son agreed to be admitted, and since chapel was open to the public, our family attended our first chapel service a few weeks later during their Family Education Program. I saw dozens of stuffed animals around the lectern, the top of which was laden with an equal number of mementos that meant nothing to me at the time. There were musical instruments surrounding the “altar,” including a drum kit, and the room was packed. I’m talking standing room only. People were hugging and laughing and reuniting everywhere I looked. This felt nothing like any place of worship I’d been in, and it sure didn’t feel like we were at a drug rehab center. The front several rows were roped off and we eventually saw all the patients file in and take their seats. I saw my son and he was smiling. I could breathe again.

And then Father Bill Hultberg approached the lectern and spoke the words I would literally hear hundreds of times after that: “Hey you kids!” Although, he often changed it up, with “Dudes! Dudettes!” or “Teenage Mutant Drunks.” Later, he’d open things up with my favorite: “Bad Ass Kids!” which elicited a chorus of “Bad Ass Priest!” from the audience. This always put a huge smile on his face.

And the music! (learn much more about this on the Father Bill web page) He understood how important it was for the younger patients to feel that chapel was for them. Brilliant. Each Sunday we were treated to covers of songs that had a recovery or spiritual message, as well as some truly remarkable original songs and poems from the patients.

Michael (a lapsed Jew) and I (a lapsed Catholic) were hooked! Not in a scary, cultish way, but wow … there was no place we’d ever been that felt more spiritual or healing. Long after our son’s 28 days at Caron, we made that 90-minute drive to chapel every Sunday. Really, no kidding … hundreds of trips. The only exceptions were if we were out of town or had house guests (although a few of them were carted off to Wernersville as well). We even made the trip when there was so much snow that we had to drive under a fallen tree on North Galen Hall Road and arrive to find no power, which was actually really cool! Father Bill … unplugged. Our daughter became a regular whenever she was in town (and later worked there, but that’s another story), and our son would return to receive a coin for anniversaries of his recovery. This was not unique! People came to chapel from all over the country, for a coin, to meet up with alums, or to get a hug from the Drunk Monk.

When our son was still a patient, Michael was brave enough to chat with Father Bill before or after the service, and eventually I joined him. We were making friends with other regulars, and somehow, we were lucky enough to become part of a sort of breakfast club that featured Father Bill and his very close friends, Mike and Shelley Early. Eventually, after each service, we would be invited to join this ever-changing, ever-growing group for breakfast down the road at Galen Hall Golf Club. Sweet Shelley Early is no longer with us, but I’ll never forget her saying to me after breakfast one morning, (try to imagine a heavy Minnesota accent here) “I’m sooo glad your son’s an alcahallic!” I knew exactly what she meant! How else would I come to know her and the other dear friends we made on Magic Mountain? Keith, Kiersten, Lauren, Jay, Pam, Bill, Tommy, Kathy, Colleen, Paul, Erica, and of course, Brittney💔.

Each week we’d be joined by some of the most wonderful people I could hope to meet. Sometimes Father Bill would invite a group of kids from local recovery houses who were at chapel to receive a coin or share (I believe these may have been his favorites). Other times we’d be joined by visiting treatment professionals. Reverend Jack Abel was often there – another beloved and gone-too-soon pastoral care leader who led the music program at the time, and later assumed the leadership role after Father Bill passed. And then there were “the old drunks in the back of the room” or some of Father Bill’s beloved friends from Delaware.

Michael and I were among the steady stream of family members who, as he liked to tell us, were like mules and needed a good bop on the head because we were so codependent. Only Father Bill could get away with that kind of talk, because we knew without a doubt that it came from a place of love. He was also the only person who could get away with calling me “Kimmie,” something I hated as a child, but would give anything to hear him say today. Any time I called him on the phone, he would answer “President of Kimmie’s fan club, how can I help you?” … something I’m sure he did with everyone he knew and loved.

We also had the honor of meeting family members who lost their loved one and were at chapel to have Father Bill memorialize their son, daughter, sibling, parent, etc. These were especially moving services. When a substance-related loss was recognized at chapel, Father Bill would beseech the audience to stand up and shout out the names of those we have lost due to substance use while the song “Can’t Cry Hard Enough” by the Williams Brothers was being played at full volume in chapel. He’d encourage us to feel our feelings, and let the tears come. And wow, did those tears flow. Who among us doesn’t know at least one person who has died as a result of this disease? I can still picture young people standing in front of their seats, scrolling through their phones and shouting out names of friends and family they have lost. Others stayed seated, embracing one another, their bodies shaking from crying so hard. He was so wise to know that we must not numb these feelings of loss and profound sadness, but to experience them in the safest place imaginable, among others who understood the pain.

Admittedly, I don’t have much experience with religious figures, but I didn’t need a religious background to know that his Sunday chapel service wasn’t like anything, anywhere, ever! He made it very clear that everyone was welcome, regardless of their faith, and including those who rejected organized religion. He regularly referenced his own struggles with addiction and trauma. He “voluntold” people from the audience to come up and share a bit of their story and/or receive a coin (much like an open AA/NA meeting). He loved seeing families “back together” at his altar, as patients and their families embraced and cried after sharing their deepest trauma with 200+ patients and visitors.

In 2011, a year after my son entered recovery, I helped to start Be a Part of the Conversation. Father Bill was one of my greatest cheerleaders, advisors and inspirations. He truly understood that addiction is a family disease, and touted the importance of families being engaged in the recovery process. He routinely invited me to join him at the altar to share information about our programs and services, and to express the importance of seeking our own support so that the entire family could heal and recover. And don’t even get me started about Father Bill insisting that we bring our group of high school theater kids to chapel to perform a play about addiction for all of Caron’s patients … twice! The man definitely thought outside the box.

Every morning I have a little routine that includes bopping Father Bill’s bobblehead, which I’ve done faithfully since he passed away on September 6, 2019. I’ve heard some refer to him as their higher power. I totally get that! If I’m struggling with a moral dilemma, trying to find forgiveness or grace within a challenging relationship, or just need to imagine the face of love … there’s Father Bill. Guiding, supporting, and always having just the right words to help me to grow and hopefully do the next right thing.

Shortly after Father Bill passed away, I saw my therapist for support to process this tremendous loss. She suggested that I write a letter to him, and then meditate in a way that helped me to envision him, hear his voice, imagine his warm hug. Once I had him firmly in my mind, I was to write Father Bill’s reply to me. I was quite skeptical about this last part of the exercise. But it was amazing! I could actually feel his presence so strongly after writing to him and thinking of him that the words flowed onto the page without any effort. It truly felt like he was using my pen for his reply. I wonder if this might be helpful to anyone who is missing Father Bill, or someone else dear they have lost.

It is impossible to fathom the number of people who have been fortunate to cross paths with Father Bill in his 88 years on Earth. As one of those many (but not nearly enough) fortunate people, having him in my life was one of the greatest and unexpected gifts I can imagine. I miss him every day. For all of us who have been so blessed, we know that our lives have been enriched, our recovery has been strengthened, and we will carry his love with us for the rest of our lives.

I love you, Father Bill!

Kim Porter, CFRS
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