Before we hung lasers in the sky, the Big Men would kill your favorite things and the shock of seeing a perfectly healthy sheep spill all of its blood on a giant stone dick would send your brain into a frenzy and, if the Big Man got enough people to look when he did the deed and feel in the same direction, he could bend the frenzy in his minds and call out to things alien and abhorrent to the rational mind.
Now, we tap on a piece of plastic full of lightning and gold when we want to talk to the gods. Now the gods are each other and we have the Great King Inter Net the Wise, supreme judge of disputes (a modern, faceless Solomon), living in our pants, interpreting life for us.
And soon, Glob willing, we will be able to shoot photons full of chatter to the Ones Beyond and bother them a bit again. On the other hand, when robotic wasteland rangers begin to slash and burn the last of humanity from their hidden dens, perhaps a return to the old ways would be prudent. Robots hate fucking alien sex gods, and vice versa.
I know. I am one of them.