On the high-tech stage of his 25,000-square-foot church in Daphne, bathed in colored lights, he preaches in person.
At the same time, his message is broadcast onto a screen in the 23,000-square-foot church of Bay Community's Mobile campus, on the site of a former wholesale store.
"I don't want church to be like church," says Taylor, taking a break from his busy schedule to reflect on the growth of Bay Community.
Using 21st century technology, contemporary worship styles, and traditional messages of faith, Bay Community exemplifies a relatively new church that has exploded in growth -- and reach -- in less than 20 years.
Ordained in the Church of God, Taylor worked part-time as a youth minister while he worked full-time as a builder, and with his wife, Jerri, raised their three children.
But he felt a need for a religious community different than one he had known as a boy.
"I grew up in a church like a swimming pool with only a deep end. We'd push you into the deep end and hope you could swim."
He decided his new church would be one where people could be in "the shallow or the deep end," at whatever depth they felt comfortable.
In 1998, Taylor planted Bay Community as a nondenominational church with a contemporary worship style intended to be "aggressive, edgy."
The church, which he says is charismatic and evangelical, began with 30 members in a warehouse in Daphne.
"I didn't have a clue as to what I was doing," he says, as he put his mind to the ministry full-time.
He also wanted all age groups to be active.
"I refuse to have a one-generation church," he says. "I want to reach people in their teens, twenties and thirties."
Bay Community, says Taylor, now 59, has evolved into a congregation of more than a few thousand, he figures, at its new locale opened in 2004.
As lead pastor today, with several clergy on his staff, Taylor emphasizes that each member, as he said in his first sermon, is a minister in his or her own right.
"I didn't want the church to be just pastor-driven," he says.
There is also, as with many faiths throughout the area, a commitment to service.
A summer program called "Servelos" recently had members, for example, come to "barefoot church," leaving their shoes behind for the needy.
And technology is integral.
When Taylor gives his sermons, his message is available on smartphone apps, and his talking points are also shown on a screen.
The worship experience is enhanced by technology, says Nick Taylor, 31, who runs the digital controls of the equipment including the light console at the back of the sanctuary.
Nick Taylor, the pastor's son, is one of several techies who keep the Malbis and Mobile campuses coordinated during Sunday services.
There is a script detailed to the minute used at both locales.
The use of light, sound and music, helps "bring the arena into the church," says Kevin Lammons, Nick's colleague.
"But it has to be balanced," Pastor Taylor says of technology and traditional religious teaching.
Taylor was deeply influenced by his own father, the Rev. Wayne Taylor, a pastor in the Church of God.
"He had a bus ministry," he says of his dad, who went out and brought to church those too impoverished to own a vehicle.
Taylor admits to having made some good choices in his church plant, too.
When he bought the 16 acres near the intersection of Interstate 10 and Alabama 181, he recalls there was only a single gas station in sight.
Soon after, the Eastern Shore Centre started going up, and the area exploded with growth.
Taylor says that his congregation bought land at about $69,000 an acre. He figures the cost of acreage in the vicinity has now multiplied many times over.
When not at church — "I'm a church-aholic," he admits — Taylor loves to spend time with his family at a beach house, to play with his three grandchildren, to read and pray.
One of his favorite Bible verses, he says, is Psalm 91.
He repeats part of it aloud:
"Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High/will rest in the shadow of the Almighty./I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress,/my God, in whom I trust.'"