From Moscow to Mitzvot: Uri Brenner’s Spiritual Awakening

“True creativity doesn’t come from formulas,” says composer Uri Brenner. “A lot of modern music is based too much on logic, math patterns and calculated rules and not enough on emotion. For me, that’s not real art. Art must come from feeling, from the senses. Without that, it’s something else entirely. It becomes disconnected.”

From a young age, Uri Brenner explored many subjects. Biology, zoology, and painting fascinated him, and he studied them deeply. But growing up in a prominent musical family in Moscow, it was clear that music would be his path, whether he chose it or it chose him.

His grandfather was the lead trumpeter in the Kiev Philharmonic, and his father followed in his footsteps. Uri began taking private piano lessons at age four and quickly showed incredible talent. A future in music school was obvious.

At the same time, he was part of the Pioneers, a Communist youth group that started in elementary school. But unlike in most Soviet schools, the pressure to adopt rigid ideology was lighter at his arts-focused academy. For example, unlike many peers, he wasn’t required to study the history of the Communist Party.

Until his teenage years, Uri mostly followed the path laid out for him. He met expectations and fit in. But one day, something shifted. “We used to joke about the ideology, doing the opposite of what was expected. That led me to explore other things, American movies, philosophy, questions about religion. All the stuff we weren’t supposed to touch.”

In those days, Christianity was spreading fast in Russia. Uri found himself reading works by Christian philosophers and spending time around a fascinating but tragic figure: an Orthodox priest who had once been Jewish. The priest’s journey intrigued him, and Uri was drawn into the world of ideas and belief. The priest was later murdered whether by Christians or the KGB remains unknown.

But it was Judaism that found its way to Uri in an unexpected way, through a music history class taught by Professor Alexander Kushnir.

“My search for truth was never one-directional,” Uri says. “I came from a refined family, and I was serious about learning. So I sought out teachers who inspired me. Everyone recommended Professor Kushnir. At first, I was intimidated. He was a genius who could unleash a flood of knowledge, philosophy, history, music theory, all at once. It overwhelmed me.”

But as time passed, Uri discovered something special. “He was like a gift from Heaven. In some classes, I felt like he was speaking only to me. One day I brought him some of my compositions to hear, and he responded with kindness and curiosity. A real bond formed between us. I came to appreciate not only his brilliance, but the soul behind it.”

They often moved from music to deeper conversations about life, purpose, and belief. Like Uri, Professor Kushnir had once searched for spiritual direction. He had even considered becoming a monk, but eventually began returning to his Jewish roots.

“Belief in Hashem wasn’t his question,” Uri says with a smile. “His question was: how do I live that belief in a real, practical way?”

Although the professor didn’t wear a kippah or tzitzit (fringed garment worn under clothing), he was deeply knowledgeable in Torah. One day he opened up to Uri and offered to take him to a yeshiva, a Jewish school for Torah learning.

Did Uri agree?

“It took me a bit, but yes. The logic he used was powerful. He had a huge influence not just on me, but on many of my friends. We all started moving closer to Judaism together. Learning Torah, discovering our roots, it felt like someone had opened a window in a room sealed for 70 years, and suddenly fresh air was rushing in.”

For two years, Uri studied with Professor Kushnir. His connection to Judaism deepened. Then he and his mother moved to Germany so he could attend university. There, he became the first bassoonist in the student orchestra. But his journey wasn’t smooth.

His teacher in Germany, a devout Catholic, quickly noticed Uri’s growing Jewish observance especially his Shabbat observance. “He started making antisemitic remarks. He said I was a good student, but gave me a hard time because of my connection to Judaism.”

Uri had a choice to make.

“At a certain point, I realized I couldn’t live a double life. My mother arranged for me to audition with one of the top professors someone whose certificate could open every door. But I canceled it. I stepped away, even at the height of my musical career.”

Why? Couldn’t music and Judaism live together?

“I didn’t hate playing in orchestras. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t my purpose. At that point in life, my soul was craving something else, clarity, spiritual growth, and a deeper connection with who I really am.”

Let’s rewind for a moment. Just two weeks before moving to Germany, a new yeshiva opened in Moscow, led by Rabbi Moshe Soloveitchik one of the most influential Jewish figures in Russia. Uri, then 17, visited a few times.

“The yeshiva didn’t impact me much at first,” he says with a half-smile. “But what did leave an impression was the underground apartment my professor brought me to. I remember walking into a dim old building. We knocked on the door, and a young yeshiva student answered. Inside were men with long beards and payot (sidelocks), dressed in black and white, radiating something sacred. It felt like I’d stepped into a different world.”

That visit stayed with him.

One of his new friends gave Uri a tallit katan, a small garment with tzitzit. When he brought it home, his grandmother smiled and said, “I remember men dressing like this back in our village.” But his mother nearly fainted. She had been raised in a world that saw “religious” as a bad word. She had endured antisemitism herself and firmly believed Judaism belonged to a primitive past.

How did he handle her reaction?

“It wasn’t easy. I wanted to tell her that I also planned to have a brit milah (circumcision), but after seeing her response to the tallit, I hesitated.”

Still, he went through with it. Alongside 17 other teenagers and adults, he had a halachic circumcision by a mohel (ritual circumciser) from the U.S. “It started as a joke, a bet with a friend. I didn’t think I’d actually do it. But we ended up taking a taxi during school hours and joining a long line of people. There were tables of food, people waiting their turn. I was nervous but then I saw Professor Kushnir there too.”

“I asked him, ‘What are you doing here?’ and he said, ‘Exactly what you’re doing.’ We laughed. He was elderly, and yet he still chose to fulfill this mitzvah and live fully as a Jew.”

Uri’s turn came and he was the 18th in line, a number that means chai (life) in Hebrew.

When it was over, he called his mother.

“I didn’t know what to expect. She paused, and then said, ‘Well, I heard it’s good for your health.’ I couldn’t believe it. This was a woman everyone feared. If she said something, it was as if it had to be done. And here she was, calmly accepting what I thought would be the biggest shock. I felt like I had witnessed a true miracle.”