The world’s first vending machine

The world’s first vending machine didn’t dispense crisps, fizzy drinks or even those clunky plastic toys in giant capsules that smell faintly of despair. No, it was far more divine in both purpose and design. We’re talking about holy water. Yes, the blessed kind. The kind you might expect to find sprinkled liberally across the set of an exorcism or a very enthusiastic baptism. Except this one came from ancient Greece, not a church.

Picture this: it’s the 1st century AD, and you’re in Alexandria, arguably the Silicon Valley of antiquity, if Silicon Valley had to deal with togas, plagues, and the occasional emperor deciding he’s a god. Amid the scrolls and sand, a man named Hero of Alexandria was fiddling with gears and steam. Think of him as the sort of inventor who would have had a million YouTube subscribers if YouTube existed and if ancient philosophers were really into hydraulic doors and coin-operated deities.

Hero, or Heron, depending on which translation you’re going with, was a proper show-off in the best way. He wrote treatises with names like Pneumatica that sound like either a jazz band or a weird spa treatment, filled with machines powered by air, steam, and sheer smug genius. One of these gadgets was a holy water dispenser found at temple entrances.

The idea was brilliant and charmingly bureaucratic: you drop a coin in, the machine gives you a measured splash of holy water. No priest required. No long queues. And best of all, it avoided that awkward situation where some overly devout person hogs the basin for a full spiritual car wash.

How did it work? The mechanics were delightfully straightforward. The coin lands on a tray. The weight pushes it down, which opens a valve. Out flows the holy water. Then the coin slides off, the tray pops back up, and the valve shuts. It was a hydraulic seesaw with a sprinkling of divine intervention. Basically, a miracle powered by gravity and bronze.

Why did Hero make this? Possibly because he was tired of people pinching free sacred water. Possibly because priests were tired of doling it out like reluctant baristas. Or possibly because the ancient Greek love of automata (think mechanical birds and doors that open themselves when someone lights a fire) met the very human instinct to monetise everything.

It wasn’t Hero’s only trick. He made automated theatres. He rigged temple doors to open with fire. He created a wind-powered organ. There was even a mechanism that sounded trumpets when someone stepped into a temple, which is the exact opposite of entering quietly. The man basically invented the haunted house before haunted houses were a thing.

Hero wasn’t selling to the public. These machines lived in temples, meant to impress and slightly terrify the faithful. The message was clear: the gods are watching, and they’re into cool tech. Imagine being a humble 1st-century goat herder and seeing a door open by itself, water flowing with a coin, and a trumpet fanfare just because you dared walk in. One can forgive a man for thinking he’s about to be smited.

Of course, all this feels oddly modern. A world where sacred experiences come with a coin slot isn’t far from paying for blessings on a livestream or getting a motivational quote in exchange for watching a TikTok ad. Hero was simply ahead of his time. If he were around today, he’d probably have a start-up called DeusTech and pitch an AI priest that texts you forgiveness reminders.

Still, there’s something sweetly analogue about his inventions. No apps, no charging cables, no data collection. Just levers, pressure, and the kind of tactile satisfaction you get from physically making something move. It reminds us that technology hasn’t always meant screens and silicon. Sometimes, it meant bronze gears and a surprising squirt of sanctity.

The holy water vending machine never quite went mainstream, but it did plant a curious seed. Humans began to think: what else could a machine do without human help? What could coins unlock beyond snacks and drinks? What role does automation play in the theatre of the sacred?

In a world that now runs on endless vending solutions—pizza, caviar, even luxury cars if you’re in the right part of Tokyo—it feels oddly fitting that the first machine to perform a task on demand wasn’t about hunger or convenience, but reverence. A tiny, metallic middleman between you and the divine.

So the next time you punch in a code for a Twix and your snack gets stuck on the spiral hook, remember Hero. Remember his elegant, gravity-based, spiritually-minded contraption. And take comfort in the fact that while our vending machines may be flashier, none of them can baptise you with quite as much style.