Imagine the pathos of a primitive tribesman stumbling around in dark, cold woods.  He has an aluminum space blanket that he is reverently carrying because it is such a shiny numinous object.  He is freezing to death, and will die before the night is over.  Because he doesn’t know to use the blanket.

Imagine Superman taking tiny, mincing steps everywhere he goes, because he grew up an earth town and didn’t realize he has power.  He minces away from a barking dog in fear.

Imagine you.  Every particle of you is filled with God.  The Holy Ghost specifically.  He is in constant contact with every distant star, with all the thoughts and  motives of everyone.  And you also have the power of the priesthood.  Men, you have it with you.  Women, you have it on tap to call down from Heaven in an instant if you ask.  You are a walking agent of deity.  But you flail around and continually find yourself defeated by little plinking devils.