Thank you god for not letting that pickup roll back over and crush me on my bicycle. Thank you for letting that computer I was working on run its setup routine without getting stuck in that loop of system updates for the forty-third time. Thank you for taking the time and energy in your busy day to assist me in the trivial pursuits of my day to day existence. You created me, after all, so I think it's nice that you continue to take an interest in my life and all its wonder. I don't feel bad about asking for help in times of struggle since I figure an all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful god can take just a few blinks of an eye to smooth out the path in front of me.
But I do wonder, sometimes, why it is that a member of one professional sports team can be pointing to the sky, or the roof of the arena in which they are playing, while the guy on the other side is looking sadly at his shoelaces? I can't imagine that an all-knowing god has a rooting interest in team sports, unless that god is making sure that the grand scheme of things drops enough probability into the scheme of things to keep mathematicians happy. Records were made to be broken, by god. The records were all part of some vast, unknowable plan, set by mortals to set a standard until such time as a very minor miracle needed to be tossed into the mix, and this team or that franchise was allowed to mess with the fabric of the divine universe.
Or maybe the reason we see these demonstrations of genuflection is that they aren't that at all. They could be hubris. A finger pointed at the sky could be a sign that the individual is taunting god, or the gods, sending a message of defiance. These are the athletes who aspire not just to greatness here on earth, but in the heavens as well. Their talents may exceed those of mere mortals, demigods who are able to mess with natural laws of time and space. They bend matter with their minds and create scenarios where solid objects gain or lose momentum or mass. They are the mutants, the heroes, the exceptions to the rule. Rather than fearing them, we tend to put them on high, happy that they keep using their special abilities on balls and hoops and one another, rather than destroying our known universe.
All of this being said, somewhat tongue in cheek, I would still very much like to see a physicist throw down his dry-erase marker at the completion of a lengthy derivation and point up to the stars, or at least the acoustic tile in the lecture hall. Praise god, and thanks for the help on that particular theorem.