You ask Sanders to refresh you on the lore of the Living Gods.
"But of course," he smiles. Sweeping a hand to one of the old pews nearby, he beckons you to have a seat. The two of you sit, with the priest resting both hands heavily on his towering staff. "The gods, my dear boy, are all around us. Their energy suffuses everything, from the air with breathe to the eldest oaks in the Frostwood -- even the stone and wood of the town here. We priests and practitioners of white magic learn to tap into that energy, channel it into the minor miracles we call our spells. Despite this omnipresence, we call them the Living Gods, because this all-encompassing presence and power is but an afterimage of them, like steam radiating from a hotspring."
You glance aside at Sanders, asking him to elucidate.
"The truth of the gods," he answers, leaning against his staff, "is that they're not that different from you and I. Every bit as capable of being capricious, petty, caring, and kind as a mortal... because they are like mortals. Beings of flesh and blood who walk the world among us."
If that's the case, and the gods are mortal and fallible... what do they do that is deserving of worship?
The old priest chuckles. "What would make anyone -- anything -- worthy of worship? The gods guide us, show us the way to good and wise living. They grant us the power to heal and protect, to shape the world around us into one better and brighter than any that's come before. That, to me, is worthy enough."