Destroying Your Legacy — a testimony of moving from trauma and addiction into rebirth, where art becomes a vessel of hope. We have not changed a single word in the interview content.
You begin with the declaration, “I am Lazarus Grimm.” What does this name mean to you today — spiritually and artistically — and how did you know it was time to claim it?
The name “Lazarus Grimm” captures where I am now — called back to life and carrying the scars of what I survived. Like the biblical Lazarus who was told to “come forth,” I felt Yahweh calling me out of the grave of childhood trauma and addiction into new life. Spiritually, Lazarus names that resurrection; artistically, Grimm gives me permission to speak the raw, unpretty truth — to turn darkness into witness and song. I knew it was time to claim the name when my wife, Nikki had a heart scare (I’ll touch on that more later), and during prayer I felt a clear call to “come forth” and speak out — when my faith, steady sobriety, and creative courage finally lined up.
You’ve said the album is rooted in personal trauma, addiction, even war. What were the crucial turning points that led not only to survival, but to creating Destroying Your Legacy as testimony?
There are so many turning points, but a few stand out. At 16 I finally saw how monstrous my stepfather was and confronted him — the next day I was told to leave. I left home and never went back; looking back, I’m convinced one of us wouldn’t have survived if I’d stayed. A few years later I made a desperate, half-drunk decision that changed everything: I somehow ended up on the Go Army website, a recruiter called the next day, and within weeks I was gone to basic training. That separation from the life I’d been living gave me the space to heal and to find strength. In the Army I met my wife, Nikki, and she brought me back to God. Over the next decade the steady work of faith, sobriety, and relationship chipped away at the hard places. Eventually I started trying to write about what I’d been through and realized there was still trauma locked inside me — working through that material and learning to speak it honestly is what turned survival into Destroying Your Legacy as testimony.
Much of the record is about spiritual warfare and ending destructive patterns. How do you recognize when a lyric is truly breaking a cycle, not just describing it?
Great question. For me, a lyric is breaking a cycle when it helps someone feel seen, heard, or understood — and ultimately, hopeful and empowered. It has to do more than rehash the wound; it has to point toward healing. That looks like a line that urges a prayer, a plan, or a boundary, hands agency back to the survivor, or invites community and accountability. My goal is always to give hope to people walking through similar struggles, to remind them there’s light at the end of the tunnel and that recovery is possible.
In the title track you wrestle with justice, vengeance, and forgiveness. What did handing justice to God actually look like in your life — and how did that choice shape the music?
I’ll be blunt — when I was younger I wanted to end my stepfather’s life for what he put our family through. Then I joined the Army, got training that would’ve made it even easier, and I wrestled hard with those thoughts. Thankfully, I was halfway across the country. For years I couldn’t even mention him or my family without feeling like talons were clawing at my chest.
One day in prayer, I asked God what this roadblock was — I was fighting depression and so much else — and He spoke: “It’s time to forgive him and let the hurt go.” That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I picked up the phone, asked my mom to put him on the line, and said the words: “I forgive you.” The moment I spoke them, it felt like a weight lifted and those claws came out of my chest.
That doesn’t mean he has space in my life or my family — he doesn’t and never will. Forgiveness didn’t erase the wounds, but it broke the power they had over me. I still have to maintain that forgiveness at times, but it’s changed everything.
How did it shape my music? It gave me strength. It takes real strength to face the person who caused you the most pain and forgive them — but that’s exactly the kind of story I want my music to tell: the power of God to turn vengeance into freedom.
Songs like Cast The First Stone and You Called Her Out address hypocrisy and shaming in the church. How do you distinguish healthy correction from toxic judgment?
I love this question. I actually spent a lot of time in Scripture studying how Christ handled correction, and what stood out to me was this: not once do you see Him treat someone considered a “sinner” the way I’ve seen many churches do today. Look at the woman at the well — He spent time with her, spoke to her with dignity, and then said, “Go and sin no more.” Correction came, but only after compassion and connection.
On the flip side, when it came to the religious leaders — the ones using shame and pride to control people — He was almost militantly aggressive. That contrast matters. To me, it’s not Christ-like to walk up to someone, bark “Stop or you’re going to hell,” and call that love. That’s not love; that’s religious pride.
The Bible defines love clearly: patient, kind, not arrogant or self-seeking. If correction isn’t flowing from that place, then it’s just judgment or pride — and I’ve seen far too much of that in the church.
You write about years lost in a “chemical fog.” What was the first real anchor of sobriety — community, therapy, worship, something else?
To be fully transparent, I lost about six years of my life in pure escapism. Meth was my drug of choice, but honestly, I’d do anything to check out and stop feeling. I finally got clean after staring down the wreckage I’d caused. That rock bottom moment was brutal, but it forced me to change.
I white-knuckled it for about a year with no therapy or community — just raw willpower — but deep down I knew that wasn’t sustainable. That’s why the night I drunkenly ended up enlisting in the Army became a real turning point. Leaving everything behind and entering that structure was my first real anchor in healing.
It still took me another five years to put down alcohol, but looking back I can see Yahweh’s hand all over it — protecting me, steering me, setting me up for the places I needed to be. At the end of the day, He’s the true anchor that’s kept me steady.
Tracks like Vanish in the Mist and Voices in the Mirror stand with victims of abuse. How did you approach writing them so survivors feel empowered, not retraumatized?
Those two songs actually came to me suddenly. I even shared them on my personal Facebook before they were on the album, because I felt like God had me write them for someone specific — I just didn’t know who. That whole week I felt this urgency, like somebody out there needed to hear them.
I pulled from my own experience growing up watching how my stepfather treated my mom, and also from things my wife had shared about past relationships. Honestly, this is an area where I don’t think men take a strong enough stance, and I felt like these words needed to be said.
I wanted the songs to immediately connect with survivors — to let them know they’re seen and not alone. But I also wanted to speak directly to abusers, which is where I wrestle with balancing righteous anger with that old pull toward revenge from my childhood. Even so, I made sure each track ends on a note of hope, whether it’s celebrating the strength in her survival, urging someone to take that first brave step toward freedom, or declaring that their identity is greater than the lies spoken over them.
Serpent of Control sounds like a prayer of deliverance. How do you discern when a battle is spiritual, and when it’s trauma that requires therapy or psychiatric help?
I wrote Serpent of Control after a vision of my wife, Nikki wrapped in a serpent whose mouth covered her head — it wasn’t trying to eat her, it wanted control, squeezing her body and injecting fear into her mind. That vision mirrored what she has battled — and continues to battle — with fear and anxiety. To your question: I believe it’s all connected. Trauma is spiritual and leaves wounds that affect body and spirit. I’m a big advocate for mental health care — prayer is powerful, and professional help is too. Seeking therapy or psychiatric support doesn’t mean you’re weak or that your faith is lacking; God put gifted medical and mental-health professionals on this earth for a reason. Sometimes healing calls for both prayer and practical help.
“Thank You” celebrates simple, concrete gifts — home, sobriety, nature. How has daily gratitude reshaped your songwriting and your outlook on faith?
Gratitude, to me, is the secret of life. It’s completely reshaped how I see the world. We live surrounded by Yahweh’s handiwork, yet most of the time we miss it because we’re hung up on what’s wrong. Training my mind to approach life from gratitude changed everything — my outlook, my faith, even my writing. It also helped me see my past differently: I can be thankful for hard seasons because they built strength in me. Gratitude revealed the connectedness of things — painful seasons carried lessons and skills I needed later. That perspective deepened my faith and shaped songs like Thank You, where I name the small but powerful gifts of home, sobriety, and creation. Not every song comes from gratitude, but gratitude now grounds me and helps hold on to hope even when I write from darker places.
You balance metalcore breakdowns, rap verses, and clean refrains. How do you decide which voice carries the weight of a message best?
That’s an interesting question — and honestly, it’s hard to answer. I don’t really sit down and decide, this part has to be rap or this part has to be screamed. For me it’s more about experimenting until the right vocal style lines up with the lyrics. When it clicks, you just feel it.
For example, with Destroying Your Legacy I went through at least ten different iterations. I knew the story I wanted to tell, so I kept experimenting with writing approaches and vocal styles. When I landed on the version that’s on the album, it just felt right — like, this is how the story was meant to be told.
You’ve described Lazarus Grimm as partly an AI-powered band project. How are you using AI in your process, and where do you draw the line to keep your testimony authentic?
I want to be completely transparent: Lazarus Grimm is a 100% AI project when it comes to the music and vocals, but the lyrics and the story are all mine. I’ve been a musician my whole life — I played guitar in a Christian hardcore band called The Park in high school, and music has always been a way for me to process life — but in March 2025 my wife, Nikki, had a heart attack and is still in the recovery process. In the wake of that, her PTSD from the incident — the way she’s afraid to just be in our home, the fear and anxiety she battles daily, sometimes all day — made making music in a traditional way impossible.
Around that time I was taking an AI class for work and someone mentioned an AI tool that made music; it felt like a God thing. I did some research, found a tool I liked, and started writing a song a day for my wife, to encourage her during her battles. Those songs became an album under the name VeilBright. Then, during prayer, I felt called to go deeper — to tell my own story in the style of music I’ve always loved and that's when I started Lazarus Grimm. Yahweh opened the door when life otherwise would have shut it down. The line is clear for me: AI is the instrument that provides the sound, but the testimony, lyrics, and purpose are all mine and 100% real.
I want to be clear — this isn’t a simple or lazy process. As I said about Destroying Your Legacy going through ten iterations, every song on the album went through hours of refinement: prompt adjustments, lyric rewrites, production tweaks, and so on. Sometimes I spent an entire week getting one song to sound the way I wanted. While this is drastically different from making music in a traditional studio, it is still an art form. I’m not asking AI to write the song for me — I’m directing it: giving the key, the tempo, the production sound, tunings, and iterative feedback. It’s an involved, hands-on process — one I can do from my laptop in the early mornings while my Nikki is resting, so I can still be present for her during the day.
Finally — how do you hope people will use this record? As prayer, therapy, mosh-pit catharsis, or all of the above?
My hope is that this album becomes a beacon of hope in dark places — especially for those carrying trauma from abuse. I want people to know it’s possible not only to make it through, but to thrive on the other side and become a light for others. I hope they see it’s possible to destroy the legacy the enemy tried to place on us and to watch God use our stories in amazing ways. More than anything, God sees them. They are not forgotten or abandoned. He loves them, and their story isn’t over.
This interview shows how music can become a vessel of freedom — naming darkness honestly while pointing to light and a way out. If you’re facing similar battles, you are not alone. Seek help: prayer, community, and qualified professionals. Your story is still being written.