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Imagine this. A woodcutter with some skill cuts down a pliable shrub. He carefully strips the outside covering of the plant and then, because he has some skill, shapes it into a tool for daily use.
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Afterward he picks up the leftover bark that he had stripped away and uses it to cook a meal for himself. He eats his fill and
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then picks up one of the leftover pieces of wood, one that wasn't good for anything, a crooked hard piece with broken ends where the branches had been. Having nothing else to do, he takes this piece of wood and starts carving. By a process of trial and error, he's finally able to give it a human shape,
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or he fashions it into something that vaguely resembles some miserable creature. He covers it with red paint, giving it a rosy hue where the creature's flesh is supposed to be. He covers over every flaw in the wood.
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Finally, he makes a perfect little shrine for it and fastens the shrine securely to the wall with a nail
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so that it doesn't fall down. He knows full well that it can't do anything for itself. After all, it's only an image, and it requires help.
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In time he begins to pray to it: for his possessions, for his marriage, for his children. He's not ashamed to talk to this lifeless object. In fact, he begins to ask this fragile little creation to provide him with good health.
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He begins to pray for his life to this lifeless object. He cries out for help to this thing that has no experience at all. He prays about a journey to a thing that can't even take a single step.
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He asks it for wealth, for profit in his work, and for success in all he sets his hands to do—all this from something whose hands are powerless to do anything.